


litany in which certain things are crossed out

by morningsound15



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Depression, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Lena Luthor Knows Kara Danvers Is Supergirl, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, also i'm trying some stuff out that may not work too well, certain tags omitted so as not to spoil, it's a real one guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: kara and supergirl die on the same day.the nation mourns the loss of one, but lena? sometimes it feels like she’s the only one who remembers kara danvers was ever alive at all.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of not spoiling anything, I can’t tag some of the relevant plot points in this fic. I apologize for that — I’m usually very good about tagging everything, including warnings. But the warnings in the tags apply throughout: canon-typical violence, themes of depression, and character death are all present in this story. A lot of sadness and a lot of grief.
> 
> POV throughout is split between Alex and Lena (though it’s mostly Lena).
> 
> Trying some more experimental stuff with this one! Let me know what y’all think.

________________

> _Every morning the maple leaves.  
>  Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts  
> from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big  
> and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out  
>  **You will be alone always and then you will die.**_

________________

it’s the official policy of the affiliated news agencies in and around national city not to publish images of the dead. not when they’re just bodies. the dying, of course, are fair game — the public loves consuming tragedy from the safety of their own lives, after all. but they don’t publish pictures of bodies.

they don’t use a picture of her body. that doesn’t stop the images of her corpse from spreading widely on the internet, broken and bloody and sprawled on the fractured pavement. but the national news media never pick them up. (lena has a team of people working night and day, desperately trying to scrub the images off the face of the earth, but they reappear. like a hydra — cut off the head and 2 more grow back in its place. they’re always being posted and reposted, shared and disseminated. by mourners, or else by the smug, victorious mob of virulent hate groups cheering the death of one of earth’s mightiest heroes. innocently, naively, viciously. her team is never fast enough to catch all of them.)

what they publish instead: full-cover spreads of onlookers; crowds of weeping mourners; humans. candlelight vigils. signs of red and blue, her sigil emblazoned proudly on thousands of chests. tiny girls in their mothers’ arms, eyes wide with tears, clutching tight. school children and grim-faced politicians and superman, his expression dark and made of stone, with his shoulders held back as they lower her casket into the ground.

the headline on sunday morning reads:

**_SUPERGIRL GONE; A NATION IN MOURNING_ **

front page, bold print, all caps. it’s the headline on every paper, every magazine, every website. the front page of google blacks out completely as a show of respect. millions of profile pictures across assorted social media platforms adopt filters, the recognizable symbol of a fallen hero pasted like a cheap border around unrelated photographs. the hashtag _#thankyousupergirl_ trends for five days.

and, deep in the middle of _the national city times_ , on page 8c, carefully-worded in small print with a small but dignified portrait alongside:

> _CatCo Reporter Kara Danvers died on Saturday, May 4 th, 2019. Beloved daughter of Eliza Danvers and the late Jeremiah Danvers, sister of Alexandra Danvers and friend to all, Kara passed away at 27 years-old. In her short career at CatCo Worldwide Media, she garnered an impressive resume and a stellar reputation. Her landmark reporting on the Alien Amnesty Movement earned her commendations from Mayor Gloria Henderson as well as_—

well. there’s no need to reiterate. lena already knows what it says.

(she stumbles upon the piece accidentally, and it makes her stomach heave and her heart wrench and she gasps, pained and unexpected. she reads through the whole thing and promptly (violently) throws up into the waste bin beside her desk.)

.

.

it’s not the news itself that does it. lena knew, logically, that the death of supergirl would mean the death of kara. that’s not to say she’s prepared to see her name in print next to words like ‘died’ and ‘passed away’ and ‘was’. but that’s not what makes her sick. it’s the thought, in the end, that the day after kara died some unfeeling federal agent had to stage a very realistic and very perfect car accident like it was just another day on the job. severe enough for death but not so grisly as to draw attention. no large explosions, no drunk drivers from which to force a psa, no unjust act of murder or manslaughter. drowsy driver, winding roads, late at night. the official story is that she drove head-first into a tree. killed on impact.

(it really is the perfect accident. it’s so rare to get a truly spotless, innocuous tragedy. it’s such a clean story in fact that lena is almost, for one horrifying moment, impressed.)

she thinks of government bureaucracy slowly plodding along; unburdened, unmoved, mechanical and steady. marching ever forward with no regard for the lives of the people it must bulldoze to clear the path ahead. no tangible response, no emotion, no human touch; just bureaucracy doing what bureaucracy does. cover-ups upon cover-ups, planted news stories and staged accidents and the calm, measured execution of unknowable plans orchestrated by unknown entities.

it’s no wonder she’s sick from it.

.

.

the funerals are held on different days. she supposes that’s on purpose, though it’s not like anyone would really notice. there isn’t bound to be much cross-over on the guest list for the funeral of earth’s mightiest hero and a small-name reporter. and it doesn’t feel like alex’s style either, lena muses absentmindedly when she can’t help herself; alex doesn’t seem the type to prolong anyone’s suffering. best to handle everything as briefly as possible. rip the band-aid off quickly, so to speak. get the formalities out of the way all at once so as to begin the mourning period as soon as possible. at least, that’s how _lena_ would have handled it, if anyone had bothered to ask her for her input.

either way, the funerals are held on different days.

lena doesn’t go to either.

________________

> _So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog  
>  of non-definitive acts,  
> something other than the desperation._

________________

alex goes to both funerals.

as the director of the deo and as a federal agent who has worked closely (and publicly) with supergirl on several occasions, she’s all but required to make a public appearance at the news event of the century. (the funeral is set to be broadcast live across 25 different network stations, and reporters with hand-held cameras and microphones have been lined up since well before sunrise, forming a sea of bodies so thick and crushing at the front of the mourning crowd that alex can’t distinguish one face from another; their hungry, ravenous expressions enough to make her stomach feel queasy and unsettled.)

it would look too suspicious if she didn’t show. that’s what the deo tells her. even though she’s mourning the death of her beloved sister, agent alex danvers is a stalwart defender of duty and responsibility — to the job, to the people she’s sworn to protect. the government must show a united front in the face of tyranny, and any perceived weakness could spell doom for the country’s national security.

that’s the shtick they try to sell her on, at least. alex doesn’t buy it.

she goes to supergirl’s funeral for a much simpler reason: they order her to. the u.s. government orders her to go, and alex has never been able to disobey a direct order. not for anything other than kara. and she doesn’t have kara, anymore, so she doesn’t have a reason to disobey her orders, anymore, and she doesn’t think she’d have had the strength to do it anyway, even if she had wanted to.

they tell her she has to go, so she does.

she treats the funeral as undercover work. that’s the mindset she settles on as she’s getting dressed the morning of, her uniform freshly-laundered and ironed smooth, laying flat and hugging her body like a second loose, cotton skin that rubs her actual skin rough and wrong. it’s the only way she can stomach the whole farce, really. luckily, her instructions from the bureaucratic machine controlling her have been made perfectly clear and concise: she must keep her face neither too grim nor too unfeeling; she must strike the perfect balance between grief and concern and sympathy. if she reveals too much — too much sadness, too much anger, too much betrayal — the gig will be up, the secret will be out, and all of this, the whole miserable charade of it, will have been for nothing. so: appropriate emotions only. that’s easy enough for alex to accomplish. it gives her a perfectly legitimate excuse to shut down the connection linking her brain to her heart. if she doesn’t have room to think, she doesn’t have room to feel, and if she doesn’t feel, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll be able to survive all of this.

her face serves as her mask, and she wears it tightly.

.

.

the deo wouldn’t let her family have the— her. they wouldn’t let them have her. it’s a question of national security, they say; it’s not part of protocol, they obfuscate; it isn’t safe, it isn’t legal, it isn’t your business. alex tries for days on end, she goes through every appeals channel she can find, pleads with every sympathetic superior officer and every friend-in-high-places she’s ever met. (lucy, j’onn, _the president._ )

nothing comes of it, of course. if alex is being honest, she never really expected it to.

kara’s casket is lowered into the ground empty, and alex’s stomach wrenches viciously the entire way through the small, quiet service they hold for her wooden box, her simple and unassuming headstone. there are only a handful of people in attendance. their mom, of course; other members of team supergirl, including j’onn, winn, james, brainy, and nia; sam and ruby, grim-faced and holding hands; clark and lois, heads bowed low and together; cat grant, with large sunglasses over her eyes and her face an unmovable mask (though alex sees her wipe at something by her nose at one point that might be a tear, or might be nothing at all — there’s nothing on her face by the time alex blinks and looks closer). alex barely sees them. they all shake her hand in greeting when they arrive, or else pull her into tight hugs that stifle and suffocate, or else press soft kisses to her cheeks that feel too wet and too dry at the same time. alex barely feels any of it.

kara’s casket is lowered into the ground empty, and alex feels like her chest is collapsing in on itself. her eyes burn and her heart feels like it’s tearing her to shreds — terrible, aching agony for minutes that feel like days. time slows around her, arms and feet moving in slow-motion, her face slack and ears ringing. she doesn’t cry. can’t seem to summon any tears, too distracted by the feeling that someone’s cracked an axe through all of her ribs. eliza clutches her hands together in her lap, her soft skin pulled tight over her knuckles, the pressure causing them to tremble white and splotchy on her thighs. alex thinks about reaching over to grab her hand for so long that by the time she finally blinks and moves to do it they’re already standing, service complete.

alex blinks again because her eyesight has gone fuzzy, a little blurred around the edges. she turns slowly toward the hole in the ground. she’s meant to throw dirt down on… on top; to honor her and protect her, to help cover her and lay her to rest. but it’s juts wood, down there; just a box. a box and a lie and an empty grave alex knows she will never be able to visit.

she drops the dirt right over where kara’s face should have been.

bureaucratically, there’s nothing alex can do about the situation, no matter how eliza cries about injustice and cruelty. she’s under orders. the government has her sister’s body, and no amount of begging and pleading will ever get it back. as far as the u.s. government is concerned, kara danvers wasn’t a person; she was a means to an end. supergirl is the only part of the equation that held any value to them.

(but what about the rest of them? what about the people she left behind? supergirl was a figure, an image, but kara was a _person_ with friends and a family; she was a _person_ who lived and who _loved_ and who mattered. kara _mattered._ )

(she says it to herself quietly in the shower, quietly at night when she’s falling asleep, quietly under her breath as she empties clip after clip at the practice range, quietly as she drives her bike out into the desert on nights she can’t sleep as she drives and drives and drives. _kara mattered. kara mattered. kara mattered._ )

alex stays as a mini-bulldozer pushes dirt on top of the empty box. eventually, it begins to rain. she notices it when she feels her clothes get heavy with the weight of the water. her hair presses flat against her forehead and tickles at her eyelashes and water droplets drip fat tears into her eyes. and she stays. she stays until her shoes are soaked through and dripping with mud and only then does she finally turn and walk away from the lie for the last time.

.

.

supergirl’s grave is easier to visit. it is always, perpetually, covered in flowers, notes and burning candles from legions of beings, human and alien alike. they bring stuffed animals and gifts, bouquets and posters, action figures and dolls, t-shirts and memorabilia and they hold each other and they cry together like they all personally lost someone important, too; someone who was real and who they knew, who loved them and hugged them and helped them; who cried with them through every nicholas sparks movie and brought them chicken soup when they got the flu and who held their hand at the funeral for a father she had never really known because she knew that her sister needed the comfort and—

alex pauses. takes a breath and unclenches her fists, her jaw; relaxes her shoulders and tries to breathe evenly. in through the mouth for 5 beats, out through the nose for 7.

she rubs at her eyes and reexamines the crowd around her. the feelings are still there, of course; she can’t get rid of them. anger burns white hot in alex’s chest as she stares at these people, these _strangers_ crying at the grave of a woman they had never known… and she clings to the feeling, finds solace in it. the scene is surreal enough as it is; alex is worried that without the grounding force, without the strength of her fury, she’ll float off the edge of the world.

supergirl’s grave is crowded, and busy, and just as much of a façade as everything else in alex’s life these past weeks. it makes all of this feel a little less real, which is a relief, and also a little more real, which is not, but the point is it makes her feel anything, anything at all. and that’s enough to draw her back. time and time again.

she lays flowers. her bouquet of lilies (kara’s favorite) blend in amongst the rest of the tributes. no one stops to consider who she is, this faceless woman amidst a crowd of dozens. no one stops to question the tears streaming freely down her face, nor why she kneels for such a long time at the foot of the tomb. she is hardly the most visible mourner, and as mourning seems to be particularly _in vogue_ amongst national city’s general population at the moment, no one pays her a second thought.

________________

> _Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party.  
>  Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party  
> and seduced you  
> and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.  
>  _
> 
> _You want a better story. Who  
>  wouldn’t?_
> 
> ________________

supergirl dies the way she lived: a hero. fighting for the everyman against tyranny. that’s the official story, at least.

the truth isn’t quite so neat-and-tidy.

.

.

it goes something like this: lex delivers an ultimatum. supergirl must surrender within six hours, or else he’ll level national city to the ground.

lena’s been working on a new device for supergirl — a small shield that will affix to the crest in the center of her suit; a shield that has built-in kryptonite defense mechanisms to minimize damage done to her and a sort of modified, synthetic setting similar to a sun lamp to help her body recover more quickly from the effects of the poison after the fact — but it’s not ready. lex must know, must have eyes on her operation (even on the most secret sub-levels of her lab, some way to see inside the giant faraday cage she built with a triple-locked biometric security system that she alone can bypass, the place where she carries out her most secret experiments, builds her most sensitive prototypes). lex must know that there’s no way for her to complete it in time, for her to protect her in time. he’d never willingly put himself in harm’s way if he wasn’t 100% sure he could survive. it was the first lesson he taught her: _never make a move in chess before you know how to beat every possible counter._

“how quickly can you finish it?” winn asks her quietly, underneath the hurried, anxious chatter of the rest of the room. agents scurry around them, strapping on weaponry, speaking quickly into headsets. brainy is in front of his computer, squinting with determination as he runs probabilities and numbers; if he can predict where the bombs are most likely to be, maybe they can outsmart lex at his own game.

“two weeks,” lena mutters back, her fingers flying over her tablet, “maybe more. it’s not even fully _built_ yet. i’ve only just finished my preliminary testing on the interaction between the device and the suit fabric, i haven’t even—”

“we’ll have to figure something else out, then.” supergirl speaks quietly from somewhere off to the left, her shoulders back and her jaw sharp. she doesn’t look at lena even as she addresses her — lena’s almost a little thankful. she’s not sure what she’d do, how she’d react, if she had to look into the eyes of the women she loves ( _she loves her, god she loves her and she hasn’t told her doesn’t have time to tell her and she can’t think about that now can’t think about missing her chance losing her chance she has to save her she has to—_ ) and tell her she can’t save her. not for her own sake, but for kara’s. kara wouldn’t want lena to be disappointed horrified guilty with herself because of a physical and scientific impossibility. kara wouldn’t want her to feel bad hopeless helpless.

(lena rips open a mound of boxes in the back of her mind, stuffing as fast as she can. she can’t risk losing her cool about this. she can’t. she can’t get emotional; she can’t think about— if she thinks about the risk she can’t—)

her hands shake and she grits her teeth and she cries as she types furiously and she cries.

.

.

it goes something like this: they’re running out of time. the six hours are nearly up, in fact the deadline is fast approaching, and supergirl, who had been pacing quickly for the previous five hours and thirty-nine minutes, has stilled. she looks up at the monitors surrounding the room, her expression quiet and thoughtful. lena’s managed to tap into the deo system from her office, so she can keep an eye on the operation remotely even while she toils over the untested mechanism on her desk. she’s had to ditch all plans of finishing the suit integration in time — there’s no way she could complete all of that work in only a few hours — but maybe, if she works quickly enough, she’ll be able to modify the technology into some sort of remote shield device. maybe affix it magnetically to the center of supergirl’s chest, provide a little extra protection. it won’t be perfect, obviously, but maybe it can buy her a little bit of time… if she just had a little more _time_ —

she stops and takes a breath, looking down at the small square in her hands. “there. i think— i think that’s it. we don’t have time to test it, but—”

“you know what you’re doing,” supergirl says quietly. she drops her large hand over top of lena’s own, a gesture that lena’s sure is meant to be comforting, stabilizing. lena feels anything but stable. supergirl eases the device out of lena’s clenching fingers, rests her cheek softly against the crown of lena’s head in something that might resemble an embrace, or might not, and says, just as softly: “i trust you.”

“please be careful,” lena croaks.

supergirl steps away and smiles. it doesn’t look bright, or happy, but it doesn’t look particularly sad, either. more resigned than anything. “i always am.”

“i mean it, kara.”

supergirl swallows thickly and suddenly she isn’t supergirl anymore, but kara, with her wide eyes and her open face and her quivering lips. lena feels a desperation grip her, something reckless and terrifying and painful.

“you…” kara’s voice shakes. “lena, i—”

a hand on the back of kara’s neck pulls her close, pulls her tight, and their lips crash together with more force than lena thinks either of them had expected. lena’s teeth hurt and her lips sting and she tastes blood on her tongue — her own, it must be, there’s no other alternative — and kara’s hands are tight at her hips, squeezing, bruising, and lena’s breathless from it, from all of it, from the kiss from the situation from the fear from the _longing_ —

something clatters outside her door. kara has lena behind her body in a second, her glare directed at the entrance to lena’s office. after only a second (in which lena’s heart clatters around loudly in her chest and her knees shake and her nerves try desperately to settle) supergirl’s posture relaxes. “it’s just jess,” she mutters. a quick glance over her shoulder. “should you go help her? i… she shouldn’t know i’m here.”

lena nods and clears her throat and hopes that that will be enough to calm her. “yes,” her throat still sounds tight, wrong; her knees are still weak and her fingers still shake as she brushes them against supergirl’s shoulder as she walks past her. “yes, i’ll help her. stay here, alright? you have a little bit of time, and i want to double check that shield won’t short out on you in twenty minutes.”

supergirl gives her a smile. “i’ll be right here.”

lena has only enough time to greet her assistant and quickly step over to her, only enough time to bend down and start to help jess scramble to pick up the scattered bits of spare parts lena asked her to retrieve, when the sound of something large shattering from inside her office makes her spin on her heels.

she bursts through the doors only to see—

every tv, every monitor in the room: busted. smoking, burning, still melting. lena stares at it all, the destruction around her, with her mouth open, confused and upset and when she turns to find kara, she’s nowhere to be seen.

(it occurs to her later that kara must have shattered them on her way out of lena’s office. it occurs to her that kara must have known, implicitly, what was about to happen, and hadn’t wanted lena to watch.)

.

.

it goes something like this: the deo manages to track down twelve discrete bombs, placed haphazardly throughout national city.

they miss 5.

1,289 people die in the ensuing explosions and fires. supergirl, though she had delivered herself to lex on-time, helplessly observes the scene around her. scorching corpses and screaming people, crying children and howling mothers, car alarms and sirens and shouts, pleas, groans. lex, with his green glowing suit, weapon pointed at supergirl, a grin manically spanning his face. “go on, supergirl,” he taunts, his finger twitching on the trigger. “ _save them_.”

supergirl stares him down for several long, breathless seconds. she turns her back on him, headed towards the nearest fire, and he shoots. hits her in the back, right between the shoulder blades.

she never stood a chance.

so, did supergirl die a heroic death, fighting for the everyman against the cruelties of tyranny? no. supergirl died, trapped and outsmarted, shot in the back by the immoral man with whom she had tried to cooperate. psychopaths have no sense of duty, responsibility, or honor. they do as they please, when it pleases them. not remembering that was her last, gravest mistake.

but it matters more that the image of supergirl — the image of the crest, the symbol, the figurehead, the idol, the icon, the deity — survives than that the truth gets out.

so the secret — _her_ secret, the secret of her name, her face, her death — dies with her.

.

.

lena thinks, perhaps, that she should take it as a small miracle. with supergirl dead, lex sees no reason to reveal her secret identity to the public. his enemy is dead, her allies depleted and demoralized, and his sister — for whom the knowledge might have, once upon a time, only caused ruin — is already utterly destroyed. he doesn’t need kara’s name, anymore, because he has no more use for it.

he’s already won.

still, every morning lena wakes up with fear in her throat and agony on her tongue. she scans every headline she can find, every new post and news story, with the uncomfortable, pressing, weighing anxiety that there might be someone out there who’s figured it out, someone who’s connected the dots, someone who’s hell-bent on tarnishing her reputation. there are theories, of course; there have always been theories. she finds them on reddit, on twitter, on 4chan and eightchan and in blog posts and forums and group chats. but at least for the time being, kara danvers’ name stays out of the dialogue — innocuous and innocent and invisible.

lena sleeps anxiously, fitfully, and it doesn’t get any better.

.

.

no one will speak to her about kara. supergirl, yes — in board meetings, on the street, reporters shoving microphones into her face looking for a quote ( _Luthor: Stalwart and Unapologetic After Death of Hero_ is her current least-favorite take). but no one will speak to her about kara.

maybe it’s out of respect. lena could understand that; she’s been trained in politeness and respectability since before she could read, she understands that amongst a certain echelon of society, there are just Certain Things You Do Not Talk About. and while her public relationship with supergirl has garnered more than its fair share of media attention since she moved to national city — with its intriguing sometimes-enemies-sometimes-allies television-esque drama — her relationship with kara danvers, catco reporter… well, how she felt hadn’t exactly been a _secret._ maybe one of those open secrets, that everyone sort-of-knows but nobody discusses, but not… not an _actual_ secret.

after all, it wasn’t like lena did much to _hide_ it. all the galas and dinners, the red carpet photographs (kara on her arm in a well-tailored suit, a simple but elegant dress), the lunch meetings, the nights spent in each other’s apartments, the sleepovers and game nights and an office full of flowers… what did it all _mean_ if not for… if not…

(a luthor in love with a super. it was rather poetic, in a maudlin sort of way.)

maybe she hadn’t… maybe it wasn’t something lena was actively trying to _broadcast,_ but it… wasn’t a secret. her feelings for kara weren’t a secret. and they weren’t even dating, weren’t even _anything,_ not officially, but they _felt_ like something. they had felt like _something._ and maybe more people picked up on that than lena had originally realized, because her employees keep shooting her pitying smiles and jess keeps poking her head into her office like she’s afraid lena will throw herself off her own balcony if she isn’t kept under constant surveillance and her friends haven’t spoken to her, haven’t even _called_ since it happened _,_ and maybe that’s because lena didn’t show up to kara’s funeral and maybe they’re furious with her for that or maybe they’re furious with her because her brother killed her or maybe it’s because lena was never really a friend of theirs to begin with or maybe—

maybe it wasn’t a secret. maybe she never tried to make it one.

maybe no one talks about kara in her presence because they don’t know what to say. maybe they want to be respectful, or maybe they’re afraid of bringing up painful memories, of lena’s anger or fury or heartbreak or retaliation. maybe. or maybe they’ve all simply forgotten about kara danvers in the wake of supergirl’s profound absence.

lena’s not sure which one is worse.

.

.

sometimes lena dreams of it. of the final moment. she wasn’t there, of course; she was across town, watching in horror from between her fingers as supergirl fell from the sky, hit the ground and never stirred again.

but sometimes she dreams of it like she was there. she’s a bystander on the street, rain pouring down and soaking her clothes, flattening her hair to her scalp, getting in her eyes so her vision is blurry and she can’t quite see. other times she’s suspended in mid-air, out-of-body as she watches supergirl and a figure in a huge, green, glowing suit trade blows so strong the very air around them vibrates with the force of the impacts.

no matter where she is in her dream, the ending is always the same: supergirl falls, lena’s mouth is frozen open as she tries to scream. she tries and tries and tries, and supergirl falls in slow motion, and lena is calling for her, calling her name, screaming for supergirl for kara for lex for _anyone,_ but her throat has crushed in on itself and she can’t make a sound, can’t even breathe, her mouth throat lungs are filling with water and supergirl is falling rapidly towards the ground now, except it’s not supergirl anymore it’s kara, dressed in her sweater and her slacks with her face beaten and bloody and her glasses smashed on her face and the ground is racing up to meet her and she can’t hit, she can’t; if she hits the ground she’s dead, but she isn’t stopping, and she isn’t slowing down, and lena can’t make a noise and she can’t move and then—

and then she wakes up. and she pours herself a drink and she lays flat on her back, staring up at her own ceiling, trying pointlessly to breathe, to slow her racing heart, to ease her mind-numbing panic, to go back to sleep. on nights like these she wakes up and spends the remaining hours in fitful sleeplessness.

.

.

remembering the scene is worse than all of it.

supergirl’s body, unmoving stone. horrified news anchors stunned into silence, cameramen continuing to point their lenses toward the lack-of-action, too frozen to think to turn away. for a moment, the whole world seems to pause. no one quite knows what to do.

no one breathes.

a scream cuts through the air. it startles the camera crew back to reality, and they drop their shots to the ground. the picture cuts a moment before the audio.

a voice, clear as day and cutting through the silence. a long, wrenching “no!” that cuts at the tissue surrounding lena’s heart in such a specific, targeted way that she’s certain her chest is about to rip open.

she hadn’t realized, up until that moment. it takes hearing alex’s voice for all the pieces to fall into place.

.

.

it’s confirmed for her less than an hour later. after her frantic texts and calls to kara’s cellphone go unanswered. after the panic has well and truly seized her throat, her heart, her brain, her chest. still, some small part of her can’t help but _hope._ that she isn’t dead, that she hasn’t _died._ she’s not just kara, she’s also _supergirl_. supergirl can’t _die._

when her phone finally does ring, and she scrambles to pick it up, the curt, no-nonsense voice that greets her has very little to say. _ms. luthor, there’s been an incident. please don’t leave your office. agents will be by to retrieve you momentarily._

he hangs up without another word.

lena puts her head on her desk and the dam breaks and she cries. she doesn’t stop crying for 2 days.

________________

there are images of alex, bent low over kara’s body, surrounding it, covering it. images of her fingers, twisted tight into kara’s suit. being dragged away from the scene screaming and cursing.

they’re not everywhere, but they get somewhere. some people notice. they assume (alex isn’t sure if she’s horrified or relieved) something more like _lovers_ than _sisters,_ and somehow ( _somehow_ ) no one seems to make the true connection between the danvers family and the girl of steel. the deo, for its part, doesn’t do anything to stop the rumors of _romance_ and _intrigue_ and _star-crossed lovers_. better false rumors than even minor whisperings of the truth.

(if someone _does_ make the connection, the world certainly doesn’t seem to care. that or some higher power — alex suspects, perhaps, a woman with an alliterative name and unlimited resources and a team of tech-savvy workers — is keeping them from disseminating the information. either way, the secret, _kara’s_ secret, for the moment, seems safe.)

the deo van they shove her into while they’re clearing the scene is dark, and without windows. alex’s knuckles turn red raw and bloody from pounding on the sides, the doors, the ceiling. but they don’t let her out. no matter how she screams. she’s thrown every which way as the van hurtles at breakneck speed, winding through national city and away, towards the desert.

alex screams until her throat gives out.

only j’onn is able to quiet her. when she stumbles out into the blistering sun, her eyes squinting and swollen nearly shut, he presses his fingers to her temples and his eyes shine bright red, and then alex is unconscious.

.

.

it’s a stupid death. maybe that’s taboo of her to say, maybe it’s heresy for her to think, but it’s _true_. it’s a stupid, useless, worthless death. alex can hardly stand it.

not that there’s any way her sister’s death could have ever been anywhere on the ‘good’ spectrum, but it certainly can’t get much worse than this: shot in the back by lex luthor, trying to do something stupid and heroic. if she had just _listened,_ if she had only _waited…_ but no. that was never kara’s style. she’s never been the kind to hang back and do nothing, not when there were innocent lives at stake. it was something alex always admired about her. until it got her killed, that is.

now she can’t help but despise her for it.

.

.

eliza has been staying in alex’s spare room for the last month. alex stopped enjoying it after the first week.

she never leaves alex’s side. except when alex is at work or asleep, eliza is there next to her. making coffee with her in the morning, cooking dinner with her at night, accompanying her to the gym even the _gym._ like she’s worried if alex leaves her sight for even a minute she’ll disappear, too. maybe she’s worried about what alex might do to herself if left alone. maybe she’s worried about what _she_ might do to herself if left alone.

alex has never felt more alone in her entire life.

it’s not eliza’s fault. not exactly. alex knows she’s only doing what she can, reaching out however she can, finding comfort in whatever small actions she can find comfort in. alex can understand all of that, to a degree.

but she can’t even _grieve_ properly. because the way eliza grieves, it’s… _counter-productive_ is the kindest way alex can think of putting it. she pulls out old photo albums of the two of them as kids on friday nights. she gets teary-eyed on a tuesday and orders way too much chinese food for the two of them to eat alone and then breaks down in wracking sobs over the leftovers, like she hadn’t _meant_ to order kara-sized portions but hadn’t been able to stop herself from doing it. she goes to the park on saturdays, when alex goes on her morning runs, and she sits on the bench by the lake and watches the ducks waddle by her feet and she doesn’t feed them, just stares and stares. alex catches her asleep one monday morning with kara’s spare suit clenched between her fingers, the cape still damp with tears from the night before.

and alex does what she can. she’s not a _monster._ but she already feels like she’s only inches away from falling apart, like one strong gust of wind will knock her down and she’ll never get back up. she can’t _also_ be responsible for her mother’s emotions through all of that. alex can’t keep a level head when her mom starts wailing over some pot stickers, she can’t keep herself from leaving the room when her fingers shake as they ghost over an old picture of twelve year-old kara, beaming up at the camera with her crooked grin and too-large glasses. she can’t do it. she can’t. it’s too much.

most nights all she wants to do is close every blind in her apartment, lock all the doors and windows, turn off all the lights and just lie on the floor in the dark with her eyes closed. most nights all she wants to do is get so drunk she can barely walk. most nights all she wants to do is curl herself around her pillow and press her hands tight to her stomach and hope _hope_ that it’ll be enough to keep all of her intestines inside her body. most nights all she wants to do is scream and hit things and throw up and shoot something and fight someone and drink and destroy her apartment and burn kara’s pictures and—

_—these violent delights have violent ends—_

it’s probably a good thing she doesn’t have the room or the space to act on the worst of her violent impulses. it’s probably a good thing that she hasn’t been left alone to drown in whatever darkness sits in the corners of her room in the corners of her eyes, threatening to drag her under.

but she can’t keep going like this. she can’t. she can’t.

.

.

“have you talked to her about it?”

alex can’t even muster the energy to shrug. she knows she looks terrible. she hasn’t showered in 3 days and hasn’t slept in nearly that long. her hair hangs limp around her face and there are dark bags under her eyes, dark enough that when sam first opened the door this morning to alex lurking on her front porch she thought she’d been in a fight.

“what am i supposed to say to her? ‘sorry, mom, but you need to leave because i’d like to mourn my sister’s death in peace and your presence is really ruining my depression for me’?”

“well… maybe not _exactly_ like that.”

alex shakes her head. “i can’t just kick her _out._ she’s… i mean,” her voice cracks and she shuts her eyes tightly and forces steadiness— “she already lost my dad. i’m all she has left. am i just supposed to send her on a plane back to midvale so she can cry on her own couch instead of mine? what kind of daughter does that?”

“look…” sam starts cautiously, “i’m not trying to sound insensitive, but i don’t think her being here is helping either of you. you need to grieve on your own terms, alex. i’m not saying you can’t support your mom or have her support you, but i think being around each other is just reminding you both over and over again about what you lost.”

“you don’t really have a mom, much less one who needs you to take care of her, so no offense, but i don’t really know how seriously i’m going to take your advice.”

sam doesn’t move for a moment. she takes a breath, a slow inhale with her eyes closed like she’s trying to control herself. her hands, which have unexpectedly clenched into fists, relax on the last beat of her exhale. “you don’t have to be an asshole about it. i didn’t show up drunk on _your_ doorstep at 6 in the morning and drink half the coffee in _your_ kitchen. so maybe try lashing out less?”

“what, do you want me to pay you for the coffee?” alex bites.

sam’s nostrils flare — the only outward sign alex’s words have had any effect on her. it doesn’t leave a good feeling in alex’s stomach or a good taste in her mouth. “you’re in a bad place right now, so i’m going to do you a favor and ignore these last few minutes.”

“don’t do anything on my account. i don’t need your pity.”

“alex.” sam waits, doesn’t move or say anything until alex looks up at her, exasperated, as if to say _are you going anywhere with this?_ sam just stares at her. “you went through something… unimaginable. i’m not going to pretend that i understand what it’s been like. but i know you. and i know when i’m being tested. i know that you like to push people as hard as you can, just to see when they’ll break and leave you. you’re not going to get me to leave you.”

“maybe you should.” she wants to break something. she looks around for something to grasp onto, sees nothing, feels nothing. “i’m poison like this. i’ll infect you, and ruby, and everyone else and drag you all down with me.”

there’s blood in her ears. it sounds like the ocean. sam’s voice speaks to her from the bottom of a large cavern, echoing and distant. “i can see what this is doing to you. and i’m worried, alex. i’m worried for you. but i’m not going to leave.”

something icy within her chest cracks down the middle. and like a leaky dam that’s finally reached capacity, she bursts.

she cries, her face buried in her hands. sam rubs a hand over her back in soothing circles, whispering softly to her. alex can’t hear her over the sound of her own labored breathing, but the words don’t matter. it’s all nonsense, confetti.

“it just feels like i’m being over-controlled,” she finally admits, voice shaky and unpredictable. “like i’m ten again. she’s so afraid of leaving me alone that she won’t _ever_ leave me alone. and it’s driving me crazy.”

sam leans a chin on her shoulder and alex wants so _badly_ to fall into her. she almost does for a few long, tense moments, almost spins in her seat and throws her arms over sam’s shoulders almost lets her drag her in and hold her up almost lets her bury her fingers in alex’s hair and squeeze the life back into her almost kisses her almost—

they’re drifting both apart and together without even meaning to. alex is drawing back because she can’t help it and sam is trying to coax her back in because she can’t stand it, like she’s setting out little pieces of food for a wounded animal she’s desperate to save. but alex can see the motivation behind it; she knows why sam is so worried about her, why she’s so anxious to see her and help her get better. and maybe, once upon a time, before… before everything, before kara and supergirl, before alex lost herself, she thinks that maybe she and sam… maybe they could have been…

but there’s no point thinking about that, now. the past is the past, and it’s already been lost to her.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and poetry throughout from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken.
> 
> Feel free to come talk to me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

________________

> _A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.  
>  **Love on the water, love underwater, love love** and so on.  
> What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon._

________________

when they run into each other at finnegans wake, the irish dive bar in the south eastern part of national city, it’s been exactly two and a half months since they’ve spoken. ten weeks and three days since supergirl died. lena is already drunk, alex is nursing her second whiskey, and they stumble, quite literally, together two high-backed chairs away from the end of the bar.

“lena!” alex exclaims, clearly surprised to see her in a place like this (it’s not the type of place lena would usually frequent, but then again lena is not the same person she was when alex saw her last) while lena looks on dumbfounded, unable to speak. alex has stood up quickly, and now she hovers, uncertain, her hand on the back of her seat as she ponders whether or not to move forward for an embrace.

in the end, she just ends up gesturing vaguely. “would you like to sit down?” she waves at the vacant seat to her right. “you’re not here with anyone, are you?”

of course she isn’t here with anyone. who would she be here with? none of her friends have spoken to her in over two months. she shakes her head. “no.”

they sit down and descend into an uncomfortable silence, not knowing quite what to say. alex swirls the ice in her glass for a few moments before she finally clears her throat. “didn’t see you at the funeral.” she winces, like she hadn’t meant to say that at all.

lena tips her wine back, emptying its contents down her throat. her tongue burns. “which one?”

alex shrugs. “either. take your pick.”

lena nods, staring down into her now empty glass. she signals silently for the bartender to bring her another. she doesn’t answer until she has a new drink, but in fairness to her alex doesn’t press her on the issue. eventually she just takes a breath. “i couldn’t do it.”

“yeah,” alex’s words are quietly sympathetic, “i know the feeling.” a brief pause. they don’t look at each other. “she would have wanted you there.”

lena can’t look at her. she can’t. “i know.”

“you’re… you _were_ her best friend. even before…” alex trails off. “you should have been there.”

lena’s teeth grind tightly together. her eyes well with some emotion she doesn’t want to consider.

but alex can read her like a book. “you’re angry,” she says, with very little judgment. no anger, no sympathy; just a statement of fact.

“you aren’t?”

a breath in through the nose. “all i am these days is anger. a walking well of anger forced into a human-shaped suit.” she shakes her head. “sometimes i think all we are are vessels for something else. toys for some higher power to play with.”

“i don’t believe in a higher power.”

alex laughs. the sound is bitter, brittle. “no, you wouldn’t. you’re all about science and reason, right? bet your first sentence was ‘god is dead.’”

“isn’t she?” lena counters, quietly. “isn’t that why we’re here? humanity met god, and then she died. now we’re trying to figure out how to move forward in a world with no greater purpose, with no supreme savior.”

“that’s… not how i would describe it.”

lena just shrugs. her head is hurting already, pounding and thick, her thoughts tangled and hard to parse through. “you can’t see it. you’re too affected by personal grief. you can’t see what it’s like out there, for the rest of the world. society is hanging together by a thread.”

“lena,” alex says a little firmer, her brows furrowed, “that’s not true.”

“i’ve been on the ground. i’ve been online. i’ve been reading everything, everything i can get my hands on… and there’s no hope, anymore. not just for you and me, but for everyone.” she tips her head back and throws back her drink. she gestures minutely with her chin, and almost immediately the bartender is back in front of them, refilling her glass full nearly to the brim. lena takes another large sip. her face shows no evidence of the burning, stinging pain she might be feeling, somewhere down inside of her she doesn’t want to acknowledge. she sets her glass down and turns in her seat. her eyes, when they meet alex’s, echo hollowness. “there are beings out there with the strength and power of gods; all we do is sit around and await their judgment. and when they die, what are we left with?”

the look alex shoots her is… confusing. layered. like the war within her is playing out on her face. some parts worried, some parts fearful, some parts understanding, some parts sorry, some parts angry and challenging and resigned. “you sound like lex.”

“i’m nothing like my brother.”

________________

“i’m nothing like my brother,” lena says like she finds the idea personally humiliating, degrading, disgusting, despicable.

alex shakes her head. “you’re _exactly_ like him. the anger, the righteousness, the ruthlessness. it’s part of what makes you so brilliant.”

something drips off the end of lena’s nose. a tear, alex realizes belatedly and rather stupidly. she’s not sure she’s ever seen lena luthor cry. “i’m not going to destroy the world just because my— just because she died.”

alex’s hand slips over hers. their fingers slide together, and alex squeezes tight, and lena’s returning grip is bone crushing in its own right. “i know,” she whispers softly. “but you’re allowed to think about it.”

lena’s eyes flick up to hers once again. there’s a little more life to them, now. a little more humor and sadness and feeling. “i could do it, you know. if i wanted to. i… it wouldn’t be that hard.”

“oh, i have no doubt. you have a brilliant mind and an almost endless amounts of money; you could literally do anything you wanted.”

lena laughs like she has no other choice. they’re still holding hands, their fingers woven together. “all this talk of destroying the world doesn’t concern you, agent danvers? a year ago you’d already have me in handcuffs for that.”

“you and i both know you know how to pick locks.”

“that’s not what i meant.”

“i know.” alex sighs. “i could, you know. the deo would probably be pretty pleased with me if i could come up with an excuse to lock you up in some containment center somewhere and throw away the key. they’re always worried about what you’re going to do next.”

“they don’t trust me.”

alex arches an eyebrow. “it’s the federal government. they don’t trust anybody.”

“what, even _you_?” lena’s incredulity is obvious.

but— “yeah,” alex answers darkly, her mood instantly souring. there’s steel in her eyes and her throat. two months ago it would have been a surprising shift in demeanor, a jump from extreme to extreme that is particularly out-of-character, but tonight lena doesn’t even bat an eye. and alex supposes it makes sense. emotional instability seems to be going around these days. “even me.”

.

.

gun to her head, she probably couldn’t draw a straight line between point a and point b. when she thinks back on it, there’s no clear path leading from the bar, from their conversation over two drinks and then three and then six, to… _here_.

she’s vaguely aware of the fact that it’s a horrible, _horrible_ idea, what they’re doing. vaguely aware of the fact that they’re both really rather drunk, and shouldn’t be doing this anyway, but _especially_ not under these circumstances. but she has lena pressed to the inside of her front door and her head is thrown back and alex’s teeth are attached to her neck and alex’s fingers are already up her skirt, already inside her, pistoning in and out. lena moans as alex slams into her and the frenetic pace is making her forearm burn and her wrist might be cramping but she doesn’t care because this feels _good._ or at least it feels _familiar._ alex can _do_ this. she’s really rather _good_ at doing this.

lena comes with barely a gasp and a shiver, all fluttering muscles and jumping hips, and without giving her more than a second’s pause alex is dropping to her knees, ripping her panties down her thighs, fixing her mouth to lena’s burning center, the apex of her thighs, and she twitches and her fingers clasp onto alex’s shoulder like a vice when her tongue skirts over her clit and she—

well. she doesn’t exactly know how she got here.

she knows it’s not right. she’d have to be an idiot not to. but she’s never pretended to have healthy coping mechanisms. lena’s skirt falls over top of her head and her thighs shake. alex slips a hand under one knee and yanks her leg up, spreading her wider. lena moans at the new angle, and alex doubles her attention.

maybe she needs this, and maybe lena does, too, because maybe the loneliness the isolation the grief the helplessness maybe it’s all been killing her, too. and maybe they just need to do something outside of that. feel something, _anything_ that isn’t… _that._

and kara’s dead. so. who’s left for her to explain herself to?

________________

the sunlight wakes her. it shines bright on her closed eyelids, warms her skin where she lies, and that’s what first stirs her to consciousness. it’s a nice way to wake up, she thinks groggily. no blaring alarms, no room suspended in darkness because of extra-thick blackout curtains, no forcing herself to clamber out of bed in the freezing cold hours of pre-dawn, when her floor is ice against her bare feet and it takes a shower that’s near boiling to heat her back up again.

she’s warm here. it’s a nice way to wake up. she wouldn’t mind more mornings like this, she thinks, as she presses back towards the warm body curled around—

lena’s eyes snap open and immediately she winces when the sun hits her face full-force. her pupils contract rapidly and she has to blink several times before the room comes into focus and… of course. she’s not _in_ her bedroom, with its blackout curtains and hardwood floors, she’s not in her _bed_ with its silken sheets and criminally expensive mattress.

“fuck.”

the body behind her grumbles, wrapping its arms tighter around her stomach, nuzzling closer to her, and— fuck. _fuck._

“alex,” lena hisses, trying to extract herself from the woman’s arms as painlessly and quickly as possible. lena slips from the bed, eyes scanning the ground for her discarded dress. she remembers ripping it off somewhere between alex’s front door and her bed, if only she can— there. she scrambles for it. “ _alex,_ ” she says again, louder this time. when she still doesn’t move lena grinds her teeth and kicks the mattress once, sharply.

alex snorts and sits up. her hair is a tangled mess on her head, thrown every which way with no discernable cause or purpose. she looks a little bit like she spent the night in a cement mixer. she squints up at lena with unfocused eyes. the bed sheet they had been sharing has fallen around her waist, leaving her chest exposed.

she grunts vaguely in lena’s direction.

“put your clothes on,” lena says shortly, already yanking her dress back over her naked body.

the sound of her voice seems to spur something in alex. she rubs her eyes, still clearly fighting some combination of sleep fatigue and a massive hangover. (if lena’s headache is anything to go by this day is going to be extremely painful for the both of them.) “lena?” alex asks, coming to little by little. “why are you in my room?’

“we had sex last night.”

“we—” she brings a hand up to her bare chest and chokes on her words. she scrambles for the sheet like she has any modesty left to protect as her face grows paler by the second. “oh, _fuck._ ”

“precisely. i’m making coffee. be dressed and in the kitchen in ten.”

alex walks in toweling her hair dry. lena points at one of the stools on the opposite side of the island. a cup of coffee sits in front of it, still steaming, fresh from the pot. “sit,” she orders.

alex does so, letting the small towel fall to her shoulders. her hair is wet and stringy, like she didn’t bother trying to wash all the conditioner out of it. “did my sister like it when you bossed her around, or is that a new development?’

lena feels something behind her eyes flash, and she briefly sees red. “don’t you dare,” she warns. “don’t you dare talk about her like—”

“jesus, lena, i’m sorry. okay? i didn’t… i don’t know what we’re supposed to _do_ about this. cut me a little slack.”

she may have a point. lena isn’t overflowing with answers or solutions either. maybe it’s best to keep the hypocrisy to a minimum. “i’m sorry.” an exhale. lena looks down at her hands where they grip the counter. they’re trembling slightly, but that might just be the coffee. “i’m just… a little on edge this morning.”

“yeah. that’s an understatement.”

lena _really_ wishes she had something else to wear. all she has is last night’s dress, dust-stained and wrinkled from spending the night on the floor. it still smells like a stale mix of sweat, alcohol, and sex, and it turns her stomach. she’s naked underneath it and the fabric seems to itch and burn at her skin. she wants to tear it from her body, fling it out the window into the trash into the ocean anywhere, _anywhere._ she’d take _anything_ else. but she can’t bring herself to borrow something of alex’s — she’s sure alex would let her, if she asked, but the thought chills her blood and she shivers and doesn’t mention it.

“obviously last night was a mistake.”

“obviously.”

“and obviously it can _never_ — it _will never_ happen again.”

alex snorts. “i promise you, i’m _really_ not looking for a repeat performance.”

“well…” lena swallows— “good. as long as we’re in agreement. and as long as… we don’t let this make things _uncomfortable_ between us.”

“more uncomfortable than they already are, you mean?”

“yes. that’s what i mean.” there’s a long moment then where they just stare at each other.

“well…” alex sighs. “i guess i’ll do my best if you do.”

“and you won’t discuss this with anyone?” she has to make sure. she can’t even entertain the possibility that she might… that _anyone_ might discover what happened last night. “i can have my lawyers draw up an nda if—”

“ _jesus_ , lena.” alex pushes away from the island, her face twisting. “you really think i’m an ass, don’t you? a fucking _nda?_ ”

“i have things i need to worry about outside of this room,” lena says, defensive. “if this got out—”

“what? it’d be bad for your _company_? i don’t exactly _want_ people to know that i slept with my dead sister’s girlfriend. _fuck,_ lena. _jesus_.”

lena’s stomach churns. “not— i wasn’t her girlfriend.”

alex laughs. it’s humorless and cold. “sure you weren’t.”

“i’m—i’m just trying to protect both of us.”

“you’re unbelievable. _god._ you’re _unbelievable._ ”

“alex, please. it isn’t personal.”

alex laughs. the sound cuts into lena, cold like steel. “not personal. yeah, great. great. absolutely great.” she pushes a hand through her hair. “don’t send me an nda, lena. just… please. if you ever had any respect for me, please. don’t.”

“alright. i… alright.”

they’re standing an ocean apart. “we really messed things up, didn’t we.” the end of her sentence clunks with finality. it isn’t a question, though it’s phrased like one, so lena doesn’t answer it.

“i’m sorry,” she says instead.

alex just shakes her head. “i’m going to shower.” no mention of the fact that she’s already showered this morning. lena heard her. they both know it. (lena can’t say she necessarily blames her, though — she wonders how many showers it’s going to take until she feels clean, washed free of this horrible situation.) “don’t worry about locking the door behind you. use my phone if you need to call your driver.”

lena knows when she’s being dismissed.

(she can’t really blame alex for that, either.)

.

.

.

lena, understandably, has a lot on her mind this morning. that must be why she misses all of the warning signs as she enters her office. she’s distracted, her attention pulled in every direction, so she doesn’t notice the unnatural stillness around the front desk, the unfamiliar security guard who nods and swipes her into the elevator, the tight smile jess shoots her when lena grimaces her morning greeting. she pushes into her office and it takes her much too long to see the figure lounging on her couch.

lean stiffens immediately, her purse clutched tightly in one hand. “lex.”

he smirks at her. the top of his head glistens in the early morning light, and lena hates him. she hates him and hates him and hates—

“hello, lena.”

lena does her very best to appear unfazed. she walks, as slow as she dares, around her desk. she deposits her purse and lowers herself, her spine rigid. “what do you want?”

lex shrugs. “nothing.” he fiddles with the watch around his wrist. “not yet. i just wanted to check on how you were handling my company.”

“this isn’t your company anymore. it’s mine.” she crosses her legs, her knee subtly pressing the hidden red _panic_ button that’s designed to alert her security team of any threats. “i thought we resolved this discussion months ago.”

“ _you_ resolved. i don’t feel my opinion was properly respected.”

lena glances at the door to her office. any moment, now, any minute…

“your security team is a bit tied up at the moment.” lena’s eyes jump back to his. lex’s smile is sickly. “i’m sorry. i should have mentioned that earlier. we’re quite alone, no fear of interruptions.” lena’s hands are tight fists on top of her thighs. lex stands, as if to approach her, and lena doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “i wouldn’t want to rush our conversation.”

“of course. i’m not surprised.” lex, seemingly suddenly bored, has wandered away from her, examining her office like it holds intriguing secrets just waiting to be discovered. he trails his fingers over her plants, bits of scattered research, before coming to rest on a picture frame she hasn’t had the heart to remove yet. her stomach clenches as his nails trace the outline of kara’s face, stuck frozen in a smile, beaming out at her. _he killed her,_ her mind whispers darkly. _he killed her he killed her he killed her._

“you know,” lex says, glancing over his shoulder towards her, “on days like today i’m a little sorry i killed her.” it takes everything in her power not to react. her eye still twitches traitorously, and lex’s maniacal grin only grows. “can you _imagine_ what she’d do if she knew?”

“if she—”

“oh, i wish i could have been the one to tell her. you know how i enjoy ruining their lives, tearing them down to our level.” lena doesn’t need to ask to know who ‘they’ are. “and what you did last night…” lex chuckles and shakes his head. lena’s blood is ice in her veins. she can’t move, can’t even blink. “i feel like i’ve underestimated you, lena. perhaps i can learn something from you after all. cruelty of the highest magnitude. mother would be impressed.”

lena knows what he’s doing. she _knows._ she can see it written plainly all over his face. he wants her to react. he wants her to bend, to break. perhaps he’s even hoping if he presses hard enough she’ll cry, crumble, fall apart, make a mistake. lex has always enjoyed tormenting those weaker than him, and his favorite victim has always been lena. but she can’t make a mistake. she can’t show him that she’s weak. she’s alone and no one is coming for her and if she’s not careful she isn’t bound to make it out of this office alive. (she doubts lex is actively trying to kill her. if he were, she’d probably already be dead. besides, he can’t torture her if she’s dead, and the torturing is half the fun of it.)

(he can’t know about last night. he can’t. he’s bluffing, there’s no way he knows, _no one knows,_ and there’s no way… there’s no way…)

she twists her watch around on her wrist like she can’t help but fidget. his eyes are glued to her face, watching for a crack in her mask, waiting for the pain to bubble up to the surface. he’s always enjoyed causing pain. he wouldn’t want to miss one second of the pay-off.

lena presses the hidden button disguised as the wind nubbin twice before pulling her fingers back and slotting them together, squeezing tightly. “you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffs. she feels a sickening churn in her gut that she can’t shake. she should have known he would be watching her, surveying her, surveying _alex._ he’s probably had her under surveillance for months now, and it’s only her grief that’s left her complacent. weak. open and vulnerable. like a fool. like an absolute _fool_.

_weak. she’s weak. she can’t show weakness._

(she’s learned the hard way — and this episode is just another terrible reminder — not to fall complacent around her brother. she’s already been so foolish, so stupid. she can’t let her guard down again. she can’t assume she knows anything about him or his actions or motivations again.)

(he’s already taken kara from her. she won’t let him take anything else.)

“you know what they say about truth. it has a funny way of getting out.” his eyes sparkle and he leans forward, pressing palms against her desk. “truth is a funny thing. it does strange things to the minds of men. we must either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”

lena’s eye twitches again. she keeps her face empty, hiding her confusion. “quoting lovecraft? how pedestrian.”

his eyes twinkle. lena sees nothing but fire in them, nothing but death and savagery. “very good, lena. you know your science fiction.”

“i grew up with you, didn’t i?”

“yes, and i made sure to do my part. i filled your head with as many fantastical stories as i could with the hope that, one day, you might grow up to be something other than a disappointment.” his nose twitches up in something like a sneer. “sadly, that hasn’t proven true. but there’s still time. you show _outstanding_ promise.”

“i don’t want anything to do with you and your _schemes,_ so if you’re here to recruit—”

he laughs loudly. there’s no humor to the sound. his head tips back, exposing his throat, and lena is gripped with madness for a moment as she imagines ripping it open with her bare hands, imagines the way crimson would spill over her fingers and over her desk and how it would stain her dress and the wood of her floor, the way lex’s eyes would widen with surprise and his breath would gurgle to a stop in his gaping mouth—

“ _recruit_?” lena blinks back to herself. “oh, lena… we are _far_ past that stage. in fact, i think you may see the results of our efforts sooner than you realize.”

“what is that supposed to mean?”

“the human mind is incapable of correlating all the contents of the world.”

“you always loved to speak in riddles and puzzles.” lena’s fingers tremble and itch and she wants to slap him, she wants to kill him, he killed kara and she wants to— “anything to distract from the truth.”

something beeps on lex’s wrist and he glances down. he shakes his head and his tongue clicks disapprovingly. “ _lena,_ ” he scolds, “calling in federal agents? i thought you knew better than that.”

“maybe you’re not as inconspicuous as you like to think you are.” that seems to annoy him. his nose twitches.

“we’ll have to continue this at another date. as always, it’s been a pleasure.”

“go to hell.”

lex laughs. “i’ll be seeing you soon, lena.”

he steps onto her balcony and lena watches him with fury and disgust etched onto her face. _he killed her. he killed her. he killed her._ lex twists his watch and flexes his arms. a thin sheen of metallic fabric materializes over his suit, rippling into being and encasing his skin. the kryptonite suit glows a horrible, sickly green around him. he turns to her, his face twisted into something unreadable. he has enough time to shoot her a wink before a helmet encases his face, hiding it from view. he launches himself from the building a moment later, and lena hates him for bastardizing a location that used to be kara’s. for breaking into her office and not having the decency to kill her. she hates herself for letting him, for not killing him when she had the chance, for being weak and useless and feeble and—

her office door bursts open, and agents tumble inside. alex leads the way of course, her gun drawn and her all-black uniform neatly pressed on her body. her eyes scan the room quickly as agents break off, sweeping the space behind the couch, under her desk, inside the cabinets. they come up empty, of course; lex would never be so foolish as to leave evidence behind.

her assistant scurries into the room after them, ringing her hands tightly together and worrying her teeth between her lips. “i’m so sorry, miss luthor,” she rushes out in a panic. she looks hysterical, close to tears. lena wonders at the reaction, wonders why she herself feels more _numb_ than anything, when she should be just as much of a wreck as jess. she stood face-to-face with the man who killed supergirl, and all she feels is _tired._

jess is still babbling something akin to an explanation. “he-he had a gun,” she’s saying with trembling voice through trembling lips. “i called the authorities as soon as i could. i’m _sorry_ , i—”

“it isn’t your fault, jess. you did the right thing. you kept yourself safe.” she turns to alex, who’s looking at her with an unreadable emotion behind her eyes.

“miss luthor,” jess continues from behind her, near frantic, “i can’t _begin_ to tell you how _sorry_ —”

“there’s no need to apologize.” lena turns away from alex. “you did everything you could. please, take the rest of the day off.”

“i—” jess blinks at her, eyes wide and dumbfounded— “i can’t do that.”

“please. i insist. you’ve had a traumatic experience. in fact, take until monday. i won’t need you this weekend.”

jess swallows, hesitating. “are… you sure?” jess is the best assistant lena has ever had; she’s dedicated to her job, committed to her duties, she has an excellent work-ethic and demeanor. but even she wouldn’t turn down a 3-day weekend when so few of them are made available to her.

lena does her best to smile. “yes, please. i need you at your best next week, you know we have the ameritech merger to hammer out.”

alex has a hand to her ear. she’s murmuring under her breath. lena feels her presence like pinpricks along her spine.

when jess finally collects her things and scurries, still shaken, towards the elevator, the remainder of the deo agents have scattered throughout the building. lena hopes they’re searching for her security team, making sure they’re alright. she hopes no one has been injured or killed. she’s going to have to take extra measures to increase her security, maybe add a biometric locking system to her elevator and office, or at the very least to her floor. she’ll need to check that nothing has been taken or disturbed from the lab, and discover how, exactly, lex was able to infiltrate the second most secure part of her operation without lena so much as receiving a warning. she’s going to need to sweep her office and her apartment for bugs, and probably alex’s, too, and she—

there’s a hand on her arm. lena blinks and looks up, her eyes connecting with alex’s. she’s frowning, concerned. “are you alright?”

lena blinks a few more times and nods, though she’s not entirely sure who she’s trying to convince. “i’m fine. he was just here to torment me. to tell you the truth, i was expecting something like this sometime soon. lex is sick and he’s twisted, but at least he’s consistent.”

“what did he say to you?”

alex’s hand is still on her upper arm, curled loosely around her bicep. lena doesn’t shake her away. “the usual,” she says. “how i’m a disappointment, how he wishes supergirl were still alive so he could torture her further before killing her again.” she pauses, takes a step back. alex’s arm falls uselessly to her side and lena thinks, and she worries her lip between her teeth, recalling— “he did say something strange,” she murmurs with a frown. she walks around her desk, pulls a notepad towards her and begins scribbling. “he kept quoting from lovecraft.”

“who?”

“h.p. lovecraft. _the call of cthulu,_ specifically.” lena continues writing, jotting straight from memory. “strange book.” she drops her pen and stares down at the quotes she’s copied in cramped, hurried handwriting. “i haven’t read it since i was a child.”

“why would he do that?”

lena stares for a few moments, searching her brain for answers, for some connection. when nothing appears, she blinks back to herself with a sigh. “who knows?” she rubs at her eyes. she feels tired all of a sudden. “lex is a madman. his ravings are nonsensical.”

alex glances down at lena’s hands where they rest on her crossed arms. lena follows her eyes and sees that her fingers are shaking. she tucks her hands behind her back and stands straighter.

there’s an unreadable expression on alex’s face. lena can’t place it, but it unsettles her stomach. “i’m sorry you had to go through this,” alex says softly, her words meant only for the two of them. “i know seeing him must have been—”

“it’s fine.”

alex takes a step forward, her voice dropping lower still. “it isn’t _fine_ , lena.”

“i know my brother well enough. i anticipated he might show up, i had time to prepare. really, it’s fine. if anything this is my fault. i should have been more vigilant, i should have—”

“stop.” alex places a hand on her shoulder. lena blinks and looks up. she hadn’t realized she’d strayed closer, but she’s on lena’s side of the desk, now, and she’s tall and she’s close and lena doesn’t know what to do. alex squeezes once and lets go, but doesn’t move away. “stop saying everything is fine when i know that it isn’t. you don’t have to lie to me about this. nothing bad is going to happen to you if you admit that you aren’t okay.” lena doesn’t respond. alex, it seems, hadn’t expected her to. she sighs deeply and shoves a hand through her hair. she takes a step back, putting some distance between them, and lena lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “if he’d been here when i got here i would have shot him.”

lena laughs humorlessly. “i wish you had. but i’m afraid it won’t be that easy to kill lex. he’s deranged but smart and resourceful. arrogant, yes, but not without reason.”

“we’ll get him, lena.”

“i don’t doubt that.” _but how many more people will die until then?_ lena takes another breath. “he knows about us.”

alex goes pale. “he what?”

“he knows about last night. he never said so explicitly but he made it pretty obvious.”

“shit.”

“indeed.”

“ _shit._ do you… what’s he going to do with it?”

lena casts her eyes out over the city. “maybe nothing. maybe he just wants me to worry that he _will_ at some point. maybe he just wants me distracted.” she shakes her head. “probably nothing good.”

she hears alex swallow behind her. “listen…” alex starts softly, “about this morning—”

“don’t bother.”

“i shouldn’t have kicked you out like that.”

“you were angry. i understand.”

“lena—”

“that will be all, agent danvers. thank you for your help.”

she hears alex take a breath. lena doesn’t turn away from the window. “you know how to reach me if you need anything.”

“i do.”

a heavy sigh. “stay safe, lena.”

she walks out of the room without another word. the office is very still. lena is well and truly alone. it’s only 10 in the morning but it already feels much later, and she’s already exhausted. lena rubs at the bridge of her nose, pinching tight, hoping to ward off the headache she can already feel building. it does no good, of course. last night’s drinking combined with this morning’s crying and lex’s unwelcome reminder of trauma has left her utterly drained.

she stares out on the city and can’t stop her eyes from scanning the skyline. it’s an old habit, one she can’t shake, even all these many months later. she wonders if she’ll ever stop looking out towards the horizon with the expectation of seeing the familiar red and blue blur that used to signal—

she takes a breath. tears prick behind her eyes and she takes another, trembling breath. she covers her mouth and nose with one hand, the other wraps tight around her stomach, and she squeezes and squeezes and squeezes herself so hard she thinks she feels something in her chest crack. she hopes for a rib, something that will crack off and stab her; maybe puncture a lung so there’s a tangible reason she can’t breathe, not just grief; maybe tear a hole through her heart so there’s a reason it’s beating so unevenly.

she looks out on a still city and barren sky, is met by emptiness, and meets it with emptiness in turn.

she stands there for a very long time.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and poetry throughout from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken.
> 
> Feel free to come talk to me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it’s late but at least it’s hella long.
> 
> Things are scary and hard right now. Everyone stay safe, please.

________________

> _Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly  
>  flames everywhere.  
> I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,  
> that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.  
> I’m not the princess either._
> 
> _Who am I?_

________________

there are several things alex expects, in the fall-out of sleeping with lena:

  * to be ignored.
  * or, instead: ever-increasing awkwardness in whatever conversations they’re forced to have. an increase in tense email and text exchanges, maybe.
  * perhaps a visit from an attorney, a man in a suit that costs more than alex’s monthly rent, or a member of lena’s security team, a burly man with an earpiece and a threatening scowl.
  * her apartment to be swept for bugs and other listening/recording devices. (this one does happen. twice. first by the deo, then by a private firm contracted by lena personally. alex suspects former cia operatives were involved.)
  * the persistent feeling of guilt weighing heavy like lead in her stomach.



what she doesn’t expect: a phone call at 11:36pm on a friday night.

lena’s picture shines bright out at her from the rest of her dark apartment, grinning with an arm wrapped around kara’s shoulders. seeing the picture makes her stomach lurch and she closes her eyes and swipes to answer the call before she can think too much about it.

alex has nothing to do on friday nights anymore. (she rarely has anything to do these days period. when she isn’t at work, that is, because she used to do things with maggie, who isn’t here anymore, and kara, who is never coming back, and she loathes the idea of trying to make new friends and can’t stomach the idea of seeing winn, or nia, or james when all she really wants to do is swallow half a bottle of bourbon and lay on her couch in the dark in silence.)

“lena?” she grunts into the phone. she half expects a mistake, or something life-threatening, and she’s already sitting up, eyes casting about for her sidearm when lena answers.

_“hi, alex.”_

“are you alright? is it lex?” alex is calculating how long it will take to get to lena’s apartment on her bike. fifteen minutes, maybe. less if she speeds and ignores red lights. she knows a few cut-throughs her bike could slip through. she could make it in eight, maybe, if she leaves right now.

 _“it isn’t lex. everything’s fine. just—”_ alex hears a swallow. she stops, half-bent over, boot only partially laced, and waits. _“are you doing anything right now?”_

alex sits up slowly. “no,” she answers carefully.

a breath through the phone. _“can you come over?”_

there are warnings flashing in alex’s brain, so bright and loud that she’s pretty sure a blind person could see them. “lena…” she says in warning, because they talked about this, they _talked_ about it, and alex doesn’t begrudge lena seeking comfort, or release, or whatever it is she’s looking for, but they _talked_ about this and alex can’t be the person to give that to her. she can’t. she isn’t going to.

_“this isn’t a booty call, if that’s what you’re worried about.”_

_it is._ “it’s not,” alex denies. “but it’s almost midnight. you won’t blame me for being surprised.”

 _“forget it. sorry i interrupted your night.”_ lena’s voice sounds tight. alex worries her bottom lip. _“i hope i didn’t ruin it.”_

“you didn’t ruin anything.” alex pinches the bridge of her nose. “why did you call me?”

 _“sam was busy.”_ there’s a pause. alex just waits.

when lena speaks next, her voice cracks heavily. _“i do-on’t **have** anyone else.” _a desperate inhale. a quiet, choked-off sob. alex’s stomach lurches again, for entirely different reasons. _“i’m sorry,”_ lena whispers, soft as anything. _“i’m sorry. i didn’t kno-ow who **else** —”_

“are you at home?”

_“yes.”_

“okay. just… stay there, okay? stay there.”

alex thinks, as she’s pulling her helmet over her head, that she might be playing with fire. she has a couple glasses of bourbon in her, she maybe shouldn’t be making rash, split-second decisions, she shouldn’t be driving to lena’s place at midnight a week after sleeping with her, she maybe shouldn’t be driving _at all_. she thinks that kara wouldn’t approve of any of this. she thinks about the fact that kara never learned when to leave things well enough alone, thinks that something in the past two months must have changed her, because she seems to suddenly suffer from the same problem.

she thinks, as she kicks her bike into gear, engine rumbling pleasantly beneath her, about the way lena’s voice had trembled, the way she had cried. alex has never seen lena cry.

________________

it isn’t love or lust or anything ridiculous of the sort. it isn’t planned or purposeful, not driven by some powerful unconscious emotion.

there’s actually a moment, after they sleep together, where lena thinks that maybe they’ll be able to put the whole horrible experience behind them. not move on from it per se, but at the very _least_ pretend that it never happened. which would be in everyone’s best interest. nda or not, it was made very clear to both parties that what happened between the two of them was a one-time occurrence that should never, _ever_ happen again. that _will_ never happen again.

and lena fully intends to hold herself to that standard. it seems a fairly easy rule to follow: don’t sleep with your dead best-friend-slash-maybe-almost-girlfriend’s sister. simple. straightforward. uncomplicated.

and that’s something that lena’s always appreciated about her relationship with alex. if nothing else, it’s always been an uncomplicated one. alex has felt, for the most part, only 3 distinct emotions in relation to lena: (1) indifference; (2) hostility; (3) mistrust. very simple, comprehensible, easy-to-understand emotions. and lena, for her part, has always regarded alex as more of a means-to-an-end. not to say that she necessarily _disliked_ her. she didn’t understand alex’s strong mistrust or defensiveness when it came to lena’s closeness to kara, but then again at the time lena hadn’t known she was dealing with _supergirl’s_ sister. that might have changed things. and she thinks it’s probably understandable, the mistrust and all; if _she_ were related to supergirl she doubts she’d be quick to trust anyone, either. especially not a luthor. especially not one that had obviously taken such a keen interest in said sister’s life.

to alex, lena has been an enemy and a reluctant ally, but never quite a friend. to lena, alex has been a barrier, an obstacle she had to navigate in order to spend time with kara.

so it’s not like sex has ever been _on the table_ for them. if you had asked lena a few weeks ago, she probably would have laughed in your face for even suggesting they might some day in some far off distant future have sex. the idea would have been so far-fetched as to be ludicrous. _not_ sleeping with alex is easy; _much_ easier than sleeping with her. all she has to do is nothing — which is exactly what lena’s done the entire time she’s _known_ alex — and then there’s no risk of it happening again. no harm, no foul, no friendships lost or broken hearts or bridges burned. a mistake rectified, never to be repeated.

it’s the easiest thing in the world, not to let it happen again.

.

.

of course, then it happens again.

.

.

it’s her fault, too. she’s the one who calls alex in the middle of the night. she’s the one crying, trembling, barely holding it together. she’s the one with the scotch bottle propped open in front of her, knees bouncing as she picks at her cuticles, thinking about how much she can stand to drink before getting properly, violently ill. she thinks she’ll be unconscious by the time she gets most of the way through one bottle. thinks, briefly, about the one time she got alcohol poisoning in college, when she was 17 and foolish; thinks about the bumpy ambulance ride to the hospital, the feeling of her aching throat after the tube was removed, of nausea, of waking up in the hospital the next morning with sam asleep at her side and lex, reading in the chair by her bed, back when he’d still had the time (or was it the patience, or was it the calculated need?) to take care of his sister.

it’s entirely her fault. she’s the one who collapses against alex, she’s the one whose sobs finally turn quiet, and still. she’s the one with her face buried in alex’s neck, the one who buries fingers in short hair and pulls just to feel _something_ that isn’t dread. she’s the one whose lips taste like scotch (or is it bourbon?), the one who starts the pulling of clothes from bodies, of arms towards rooms.

.

.

in the dark, with her eyes closed, it’s hard to tell one body from another. they don’t speak, they exchange nothing more than kisses and breaths, and in the dark, with her eyes closed, it’s easy enough for lena to swap one sister for another in her mind.

she comes with a sob, shaking and sick, and when alex rolls off of her she feels worse, sicker, worse worse worse worse than she had beforehand, which she hadn’t thought possible.

they breathe heavily next to each other, eyes to the sky and fingers trembling laced together. lena’s breaths turn to sobs, and alex turns into her, wraps her free arm around lena’s waist and squeezes and squeezes until lena feels like she can breathe, again.

________________

the morning after the second time she and lena sleep together, alex wakes up slowly. lena is curled up in bed next to her, comforter kicked down to her ankles, top sheet draped loosely over her waist. she’s wearing just an oversized t-shirt, and alex is, too. something ancient pulled out of the recesses of lena’s closet — left at her apartment either by james (which would be ironic and awkward in equal measures), or some other ex-boyfriend, or even kara, maybe (which alex shudders to think about), who was the only one in their little group who ever really _liked_ sports. _NATIONAL CITY HARRIERS_ it reads in faded script, an old design for the men’s professional basketball team of national city. alex has never really liked basketball. she can’t remember ever knowing anyone who does.

( _besides kara,_ she thinks, before pushing the thought away.)

lena’s chest is rising and falling evenly. she’s still asleep, serene in unconsciousness. alex slips from the bed without waking her.

the floor under her bare feet is cold. she shivers, goosebumps rippling down her arms, up to her scalp. she wraps her arms around herself before grabbing a blanket from the back of lena’s couch and fashioning a makeshift shawl. it’s early — before 7, she guesses. it smells the way mornings smell. open, and cold, and clean, and just a little metallic, just a little dusty.

she starts a pot of coffee without thinking, bare thighs pressing tight to cool marble. she hoists the blanket a little higher, and as her eyes skim over lena’s empty apartment, looking at it for maybe the first time with actual attention. her gaze catches on something bright near the tv. an old photograph, one she hasn’t looked at before. she startles when she recognizes it. she has a matching one at her own apartment.

it’s of her and kara, taken just a few weeks after kara started her job at catco. alex’s hair is different — she remembers she’d only just gotten it cut, was still shy and blushing whenever anyone complemented the shorter length and the way it framed her face, still just figuring out a balance between her masculine and feminine styles, and what it might mean for her sexuality. kara is fresh-faced and beaming, pre-supergirl, pre-lena, pre-saving-the-world.

it’s a curious photograph to exist _here._ alex walks towards it on feet that direct themselves. alex wonders how it came to be in lena’s possession, and why it doesn’t look out-of-place amongst her belongings.

she touches the tips of her fingers to the glass covering kara’s face. just a moment. just a brush. she closes her eyes and she can see kara, sitting on the couch in front of her, feet propped up on the coffee table and elbow deep in a bowl of popcorn. she can see kara curled under a blanket with her knees curled under her during game night, kara dashing to her closet to help her pick out an outfit for her first date with maggie, kara asleep on alex’s favorite chair with her glasses still perched on the bridge of her nose, threatening to fall off every time she so much as twitches.

she swallows and pulls her hand away. when she straightens up and turns around lena is watching her, leaning one hip against the wall next to the refrigerator. she’s far away, closer to the window, and it gives her the appearance of looking _down_ at (on?) alex, who swallows thickly.

“hi,” lena says quietly. she’s found a pair of pants somewhere between the bed and where she is now, which alex appreciates. everything is less awkward when everyone is fully closed.

“hi,” alex says back. she wraps the blanket tighter around her shoulders, feeling naked even though she isn’t. “coffee?”

“please.”

alex stops at the pot and pauses, briefly, and spins around again. “i don’t know how you take it. or… where your mugs are. sorry.”

“dash of milk. almond or oat. and cabinet above the sink.”

alex is a little surprised. “lactose intolerant?” she asks, pulling the mugs from the spot lena directed her to. it’s something she thinks she should have known about lena; food allergies come up fairly often when you eat regular meals with someone, and while she and lena had never been _friends,_ exactly, they _had_ spent a fair few nights in communal company. usually with kara. usually involving food.

“vegan,” lena corrects.

alex blinks at her. “since when?”

“since my therapist told me i needed to change my eating, sleeping, and drinking habits or my depression would consume my life.”

alex thinks of the empty liquor bottles hidden in the recycling bin under her sink, thinks of the few partially-finished carafes in her cabinet, the weeks-old takeout clogging up her fridge. she swallows. “ah.” she swallows again and opens the fridge. she looks at the sparse offerings in front of her and thinks of her own fridge, the takeout containers and a few stray beers and an old, spoiled jar of mayonnaise. it’s only a very small comfort that lena’s food supply seems to be in a similar state of disarray.

“i think i have some diary-free creamer in there. don’t know when i bought it, but it should still be good. it keeps for a while.” alex passes her her finished coffee. “thanks.” lena takes the mug gratefully, and they both drink for moments in silence. alex enjoys the silence. there’s no risk in silence, only potential risk.

“so,” alex finally says carefully. “it happened again.”

“we promised we wouldn’t.”

“and yet i’m in your apartment. which you invited me to. after midnight, on a friday night.”

“i hope you don’t mean to imply this was a one-sided affair. you’re the one who came.”

alex huffs. “please don’t call it an ‘ _affair’_.”

“an entanglement.”

“that’s worse. and you _asked_ me to come.”

“you came.”

“you promised it wasn’t a booty call.”

“it _wasn’t._ that was never my intention.”

alex sighs, pushing a hand through her hair. “there’s no use going in circles. you’re right. we were equal participants.”

lena uses a spoon to swirl the creamer in her coffee. “you know this is never happening again.”

“i know. despite your best efforts to the contrary,” she half-teases.

“i mean it, alex. it isn’t happening again.”

“well, you _did_ say this once before, you know.”

“this is different.”

“i know.” alex sighs, dropping all pretense. “i mean it, too. no offense, but i don’t exactly… _like_ sleeping with you.”

“harsh.”

“you like sleeping with _me_?”

lena laughs. “no. i really don’t.”

alex releases a breath. “good. then we agree.”

lena hums. “it’s strange how normal everything has been. since the attack.”

alex has a _lot_ of things to say about what life has been like since the attack. she would _not_ have said ‘normal’. nothing about _this_ is normal. “how do you mean?”

“more than a thousand people died.” lena sips her coffee. “it was the largest terrorist attack ever in the history of california. and yet here we are, drinking coffee. like it never happened.”

“not like it never happened. i pass the memorials every day on my way to work.”

“yes, i suppose. but still, in terms of _life._ the fabric of society, the routine, the businesses and structure, responsibilities. commitments. parties and concerts and sports games. everything continues on. a plod. never-ending. of course, it makes sense. it’s not like we were attacked by some foreign country. we can’t go to war against one man, even if that man _is_ lex luthor. so here we are, stuck in the aftermath of a national trauma, but one we can’t recover from. there’s no retribution. no justice. just life. always life.” another sip. she looks out the window. alex wonders where her mind is; it seems far away. “there’s nowhere for people to channel their anger and their grief. i worry it’s turning in.”

“what would you have us do?”

“i don’t know. i don’t think there _is_ anything to do. we can’t fight back against lex if we can’t find him, and he won’t reveal himself until he’s ready. we’re in limbo. sometimes it’s crippling. the whole country is crippled.”

alex doesn’t know what to say to that.

she leaves lena to her thoughts, staring out of her window in just a loose shirt, her hair lying soft over one shoulder. she looks beautiful, when alex leaves her. in another life she never would have left — it goes against her very nature to leave a beautiful woman half-naked and sad, alone in her apartment. but she thinks lena prefers her solitude, and alex has no more business, here.

she rides her bike back towards her apartment on auto-pilot, barely paying attention to the route she carves. she thinks, alternatively, of lena, and of kara, and of sam, and of maggie, and of sara, and her mother, vasquez and ruby, nia and m’gann, and every other woman in her life, significant or otherwise.

she thinks of lena, alone in her apartment, and thinks of her own apartment, waiting for her, sitting empty and unused and dark, even when it’s fully lit.

if sleeping with lena the first time had been horrifying, the second time feels only a little cathartic. ironically, they might be better friends now than they ever were when kara was alive. they’ve shared something intense now — the sex, obviously, but the death, too — and it’s put them on equal footing, when they never were equal before. they have something in common now that’s new: heartbreak. and while a morbid similarity, it’s a similarity nonetheless.

.

.

sam invites her to dinner. which maybe wouldn’t be such a noteworthy occurrence, except the restaurant they find themselves in is nothing like their usual. if they go out to eat together it’s usually to m’gann’s, or the burger place two blocks east of l-corp, or else they cook together with ruby at sam’s house. _this_ place is a trendy local tavern (and alex doesn’t exactly _do_ trendy) with drinks that cost more than double what they serve at m’gann’s. alex has to check the address sam texts her twice to make sure she’s in the right spot. she gazes, perplexed, into the room. the floors and walls and bar are the same style of dark stained wood, and the conversation is loud enough to be a constant, incessant drone. there’s a bar, previously mentioned, which serves as most of the seating within the establishment; there are lights with exposed bronze fixtures, polished gold railings, more types of alcohol lining the wall than alex has ever seen. like something out of a movie, lighting perfect, atmosphere smoke-filled and hazy. sam waves at her from her perch at the bar and alex blinks twice three times before stepping forward to join her.

sam’s not dressed up at all — just wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a comfortable blouse and a well-pressed blazer, which tells alex that she came here straight from work — but something about this meeting feels different than others. as alex picks her way through the restaurant’s other patrons, she can’t put her finger on what it is, exactly, that feels so tense.

“hi,” sam says quietly, rising to kiss her briefly on the cheek. alex blinks at the movement and returns it hesitantly. sam doesn’t usually kiss her, although she supposes it’s happened before. alex doesn’t know exactly how two adult female friends are meant to greet each other anyway, but she’s seen women kiss each other on the cheek in TV shows and just because she’s gay and sam is… _something_ it doesn’t have to make the moment necessarily romantic and she’s _definitely_ reading too much into this.

“hi,” alex answers after just a beat too long. she moves towards the stool opposite sam, realizing only now that they aren’t sitting at the bar at all, but a high-topped table off to the side. “you look great,” she says, because sam does. “well, you always look great.”

sam smiles, easy as anything. “what, this old thing? thought you wouldn’t notice the extra effort.”

alex laughs because she can’t help it. “stop. you know what i mean.”

“you look nice, too.”

alex smiles, and the moment suspends, frozen. she looks around. “this place is a little different from the usual.”

“felt like a change of scenery. all the usual places are a little…” she trails off and shrugs.

alex’s stomach drops momentarily, a tiny hiccup, before she recovers. “it’s nice. change is good. new places, new people—”

“new ways to get drunk.”

alex laughs again, and it’s a little more forced. “exactly.”

“what can i get you to drink?” their bartender asks. she’s young, has a sleeve of tattoos down her right arm, all black and simple — alex spots a monarch butterfly, a woman’s face, a few runes, a daisy — and blinks, distracted again. she hadn’t even looked at the options.

“whiskey sour,” sam answers easily, without glancing at her menu.

whiskey sounds good. or bourbon. yeah, something dark. “old fashioned,” alex settles on. the bartender nods, already moving, pulling the towel off of her shoulder to wipe down a couple glasses.

“so it was just a change of scenery?” alex asks.

sam laughs at her now. “why are you so curious? sorry i wanted to take you somewhere nice,” she teases.

“no! i… i’m sorry. this is nice. i like it. my head’s just been… all over the place.”

sam frowns. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. don’t worry about it. what were you going to say?”

“nothing. well… i have something i wanted to talk to you about. but it isn’t urgent.” she smiles. alex finds it disarming. “we can get there whenever. what’s been going on with you? has eliza…”

“she went home. finally. i think she realized that things aren’t easier for her here. they’re just different. but i’m going home to see her in a couple weeks, to help her clean some stuff out of the old shed in the backyard. so.”

“that sounds nice.”

“i wouldn’t go that far.”

“it sounds like you’re doing a good thing for your mom,” sam presses through her dismissal. “that’s nice.”

the bartender interrupts them. “your drinks,” she says, laying them down with a little flourish. alex’s drink has a dark homemade maraschino cherry floating beneath the ice (its color is darker, richer than the day-glow red dye ones you can buy in a store), and she picks that out first, popping it between her lips, the juice exploding into her mouth with one crush of her teeth.

one pull through her straw later and her nerves are already settling. “ _trying_ to do something nice, i guess,” she continues where they left off. “i do feel a little guilty about kicking her out of my guest room.”

“i told you you shouldn’t worry about that.”

“knowing i shouldn’t worry about it and actually not worrying about it are two very different things.”

sam shakes her head, a small smile pulling at her lips. “touché.” she takes her own sip. “you said your head’s been all over the place? is it… kara?”

“no. not… well. not exactly.”

when she doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds, sam nudges her with her toe. “well?” she prods. “are you going to explain or am i going to have to pull it out of you?”

“right. well. i guess i can tell you.”

“ _i guess i can tell you,_ ” sam mocks.

“it’s… just a little surprising. i’m not sure how to say it.”

sam sits up a little straighter in her seat. her lip twitches, like her teeth have grasped at something inside her mouth. “oh? sounds juicy.”

“it’s… going to sound weird. and i don’t want to upset you. i mean i don’t know why it _would_ upset you, but you’re one of my best friends, and i know… it’s not going to sound like it makes much sense, but—”

“alex,” sam laughs softly. “you could have told me by now.”

“right.” alex takes a breath, before she quietly admits, for the first time out loud, “i slept with lena.”

sam’s face freezes. her eyes do something unexpected; a widening and then a shuttering closed. her movements pause for a full two seconds before they seem to kick-start back into motion. “oh.”

“just… just twice.”

“you— slept together more than once?” alex nods, feeling uncertain. “oh.”

“it was super weird. and i don’t know who to talk to about it. i would… normally i would talk to— but I don’t know, it’s been so weird.”

“well how do— how do you feel about it? is it something you might want to… do again? or—”

“no,” alex is quick to deny, shaking her head rapidly, not sure why she needs to make this point abundantly clear, only knowing that she has to make sure sam knows. “it was— _so_ weird.”

sam looks down into her drink. her voice, when she speaks, is quiet, and that unsettles alex almost as much as her silence. “yeah, you mentioned that.”

“everything felt wrong. i mean we could barely _look_ at each other after.”

“but you slept together again?”

“yeah. is that— yeah.”

sam takes a breath that shakes, for some reason. alex stares at her. she can’t look away. “okay,” sam says finally. she gestures towards the bartender, and when she has another drink in hand, she turns her attention fully onto alex again. “okay. so tell me everything.”

“we don’t have to—”

“alex,” sam puts a hand on her arm. “i want to help you. tell me everything.”

and alex does. in a start-stopping voice, with some of the more… _unnecessary_ details elided. she tells sam, well… _everything_. and sam listens, thoughtfully, and she nods at the right spots, and she commiserates when needed, and she offers advice where she can. it’s reassuring, steady, expected.

it makes alex uneasy. guilt churns in her stomach. she doesn’t know why.

after they finish their third round, sam settles the tab (over alex’s objections) and stands to put on her coat. alex follows, half in a daze. she thinks about stopping them. she thinks about another bar, another drink; thinks about her apartment, empty, or sam’s house, empty; thinks about saying _fancy a nightcap?_ like hugh grant in those rom coms kara used to make her watch, suave and charming and extending the night as long as possible.

sam slips her purse over her shoulder, and alex doesn’t move to stop her.

out on the curb, waiting for a taxi to drive by so sam can hail one home (alex rode her bike), and she thinks about offering her a ride, but that feels dangerous, precarious, that feels like asking for something more, and sam isn’t looking at her, and won’t look at her, and so alex says nothing, just stands with her hands shoved in her pockets. “hey,” she says finally, only just remembering, “what did you want to talk about?”

“hm?” sam responds, distracted looking down the street for a car that’s nowhere in sight.

“at dinner. you said you wanted to talk to me about something.” sam looks a little pale then. maybe it’s just the light. “i’m sorry i monopolized our whole dinner with all my weird hookup stories. we didn’t even get to your thing.”

sam clears her throat. glances over. “no, it’s okay. i just had some pta drama to unpack, but this was way more important.”

“are you sure?” alex feels a frown tugging at the muscles of her face. “you don’t need me to go threaten a busybody soccer mom, do you?”

“kind offer,” sam says with a smile, arm outstretched. a cab pulls to a stop. alex feels something slipping through her fingers. she has no idea what it could be, but it aggravates her, and she feels jittery and unsettled in a way she can’t explain. “but i think i’ve got it under control.”

she leaves. alex doesn’t get another chance to stop her. or, she does, but she doesn’t act on it. or, she does, but sam doesn’t look back at her. or, she does, and alex can’t see it.

it’s so hard to tell.

rain has begun to fall. alex tips her head up and closes her eyes. it’s cold on her skin. her nose pinks, her skin raises, her hair grows damp, her shoes get wet.

________________

_I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,  
and I don’t want to be the kind that says **the wrong way.**  
But it doesn’t work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats._

________________

there’s an awkwardness between her and sam. lena has no idea where it’s come from, nor what it’s doing in the middle of their business meeting, but it’s horribly distracting. she doesn’t know what it is, but something is straining the easy rhythm of their regular interactions.

it’s extremely disagreeable.

sam rebuffs every question, brushes her off when she mentions it, so lena stops mentioning it for a few days. but nothing improves. if anything the chasm grows wider, and sam is having difficulty meeting her eyes, and her updates about ruby, about her life, come shorter and with less and less detail. lena doesn’t understand. she _can’t_ understand. sam is her last tether to the thing that once resembled her social life, and lena can’t lose her _too,_ not on top of everything else. she’s determined to get to the bottom of this, whatever _this_ is, determined to fix whatever rift has grown between them, mend it with the sheer force of her will and the sheer power of her determination.

it takes her far too long to understand.

.

.

she discovers the answer accidentally.

her comment is innocuous, really. and she wouldn’t have noticed sam’s response if she hadn’t _actively_ been looking for one. she’s always actively looking at sam, these days. they’re in lena’s apartment, sprawled out on her couch, and it’s the first moment they’ve spent alone, _really_ alone together, in a non-work setting, in weeks.

thinking back on that night lena can’t even remember what exactly she said. something about alex — a story from her work, something vasquez said the other day in training, something silly that made alex laugh, nothing serious or memorable — lena doesn’t know _why_ she remembered it at the time herself. the details escape her.

the aftermath doesn’t.

sam shifts. she sort of… _stiffens_ for a moment before relaxing again, her arm thrown over the back of lena’s couch. she laughs, something appropriately distant and mild-mannered, never taking her eyes off the tv. lena almost doesn’t notice it at all.

but she _does_ notice it, and it dawns on her why sam has been acting so strangely.

“alex told you,” she says all at once. and there it is again — that stiffness. “about what happened between us. she told you.”

sam doesn’t look at her. it’s a nature documentary that’s playing on lena’s 4k tv, large and ostentatious (it’s _curved_ for god’s sake, something about _reducing glare_ that lena fully doesn’t believe). the documentary is something about chimpanzees, lena doesn’t know, she lost track half an hour ago. on an ordinary day she would find it fascinating (when she was a child she dreamed of growing up to be jane goodall). but as she hasn’t taken her eyes off of sam in the last 45 minutes, chimpanzees are hardly any major concern.

“she did,” sam finally says.

“and you’re mad at me for it.” it feels obvious, so clear and so _obvious_ lena feels like a fool for not seeing it sooner.

but— “i’m not mad. you’re both adults. you’re entitled to your personal lives.”

still, lena feels the need to explain. “it didn’t mean anything. it was a mistake. or—” lena rethinks and corrects: “not a mistake, exactly, but… it wasn’t something either of us particularly wanted. we were both just there. it just _happened_.”

“alex already explained. you don’t have to say anything.” sam’s jaw is tight and she still won’t look at lena. lena reads something in the sharpness of her profile, in the way her shoulders seem to strain underneath her blouse, and she realizes, with something that feels like a _thud_ inside her brain, that she’s made this whole situation much more complicated than she ever intended.

“i’m sorry.” sam just shakes her head. lena grips her hand tightly, and squeezes with everything she’s worth. “sam, i’m _sorry_. i didn’t know you— i didn’t know.”

sam looks close to tears. “it doesn’t matter,” she says through a tight throat. “we weren’t together. it’s not like… it’s not like you did anything _wrong._ ” there’s a break in her speech as she takes a shuddering breath that tugs at something low down in lena’s chest, something painful and raw. “i guess i just thought… if she ever needed someone she’d come to me. but she went to you instead. and she never even really _liked_ you. so. it was just hard to hear. i’m fine, really.”

“she didn’t— _come_ to me, we—”

“lena. it’s okay.”

“no, it’s not. it’s _not_. i’ve hurt you.” she has. impossibly, and without meaning to. but that’s lena’s way, isn’t it? that’s the luthor way. pain and destruction, hurt and betrayal. it’s in her blood. predestined.

it’s her curse, and now she’s gone and done something terrible and hurt the only person left in her life who she desperately doesn’t want to hurt.

sam doesn’t appear to have heard her. “if this thing you have with alex is going to be something real—” lena shakes her head rapidly— “no, don’t do that, just listen. if this thing is going to be _real_ that’s fine. i can be happy for you. i just need a little bit of time to adjust to it.”

“it’s nothing,” lena dies, because it _isn’t_ anything. it never was. “it’s already over. we agreed that we wouldn’t… there’s nothing between us. we’re just friends.”

“she said the same thing. but i know you, lena. and i know her. and i know you’re both going through something… unthinkable. grief has a way of bringing people together. so if it _does_ happen, you don’t need to feel guilty about it.”

“it _won’t._ stop saying that it will. don’t take some moral high ground with me, you know i don’t deserve it.”

“that’s not fair.”

“ _you’re_ not being fair. alex and i are just _friends._ and if i had _known_ that you had feelings for her i _never_ would have even started it. we know we shouldn’t have… we know it was wrong.”

“and i’m trying to tell you i’m _fine_ with it,” sam says, standing with a huff. “so you two don’t have to _pretend_ that this isn’t something if it _is_ ,” her voice is rising now, steadily louder, “because i’m _fine_ with it.”

“clearly you aren’t,” lena says back coldly, “or you wouldn’t be standing right now.”

sam looks down. she blinks in surprise, like she hadn’t noticed at all. “i didn’t… mean to shout. i’m sorry. i should just go.”

“no, sam,” lena begs from in front of the couch, standing now even as sam stumbles towards the door. “stay, please. let’s talk about—”

sam stumbles, her knee smacking into the recycling bin by the front door. lena was waiting to take it down for pickup in the morning, even though it’s only not even half full. it clatters to the ground with a _clang_ that makes both of them flinch.

sam curses under her breath and bends to pick up the spillage — an empty water bottle, a few crumpled pieces of paper — and lena’s breath catches in the back of her throat when sam’s fingers land on something less crumpled, more like a torn quarter-sheet, covered in scribbles.

sam frowns. lena’s heart knocks against her ribs. “what is this?” sam says, frowning deeper still, her eyes scanning the paper.

she blinks up to lena, understanding falling slowly over her expression. lena’s mouth has gone dry. “it isn’t— nothing,” she says softly. “it’s nothing.”

but it isn’t that, and worse of all it’s still _legible,_ it must be, sam’s expression reveals as much. lena closes her eyes and turns away. she doesn’t want to see. she doesn’t need to. she knows what it says.

> **~~I love you~~ **
> 
> **~~I hate you~~ **
> 
> **~~I miss you~~ **
> 
> **I can’t explain what it’s like without you. Two months gone ~~and you’re all I can think about.~~ **

sam bends down and picks up more pieces. lena makes no move to stop her; opens her mouth but makes no sound. does she even want to? does she even care to? is there any soul of hers left for sam to pry into, any piece of her that she feels the need to protect? she’s already cut, raw and pulled open, ripe for picking and prodding; she doesn’t hide it well. she hasn’t ever hidden it well.

sam reads. lena doesn’t know what. she remembers bits and fragments, scribbles scratched in a drunken, grief-fueled haze. is sam worried about what she might find? something like ‘i’m sorry’ or ‘goodbye’ or ‘i leave my belongings to—’ and is that why she can’t pull herself away from whatever’s spilled out of the depths of lena’s mind?

> **The shock of it settled into grief and then it was gone again. “It comes in waves,” Alex said. “You don’t think about it for an hour and then you remember and suddenly it’s impossible to breathe.”**
> 
> **It’s like balancing on a knife’s edge. Laughter to numbness to tears. Every time I take a breath ~~I start crying~~ — the tears leak out of me.**
> 
> **I didn’t cry enough today. Yesterday I woke up crying.**
> 
> **I can’t stop reading the posts and comments. I need to know who’s saying what. It makes me angry. Confused and sad and upset. I keep thinking “Where were you? Who are you? You didn’t know her, ~~you aren’t entitled to my grief~~.”**
> 
> **Social media is poison. It’s disgusting that we don’t know how to grieve, ~~that this is how we grieve,~~ that we don’t know anything different. That I’m participating. That we have to. That I have to, and need to.**
> 
> **I feel guilty when I’m not sad. I already feel guilty that I wasn’t destroyed today, that I laughed and ate and talked, that I worked and did things I needed to do and things I wanted to do, ~~things for me + my happiness and~~ not for her. I saw Sam, did work, listened to Billie Holiday, talked about movies and politics, ate, did more work, laughed, drank wine. It was a normal day. I keep feeling horrible for living it.**
> 
> **I did something terrible and ~~I don’t know if I’ll ever~~ I’ll never forgive myself.**

sam hasn’t left lena’s apartment, though she was half-out-the-door only moments before. in fact, she’s barely even moved. lena can’t hear her breathing, but she knows that she must be. she can’t hear anything but the pounding in her ears. they say when you press your ear to a conch you can hear the ocean it was birthed inside. lena knows that’s not true. it’s just the world — cars nearby, footsteps, the air, the sound of your blood — echoing back to you. proof that you’re alive to picture beaches at all.

“lena…”

“don’t, sam.”

“she isn’t her sister. you can’t— you can’t _use_ her to replace—”

“ _don’t_.”

“she isn’t kara.”

“don’t you think i know that?” there’s a rage surging within her, white hot and terrifying and sudden. exhilarating. she wants to break something. she feels half-deranged. “don’t you think i _know_ that?!” she says, louder now, yelling. “i know who she is! i know she isn’t kara! i know kara is _dead_! i know, i know, i _know_! a-and—” a break now, a crack in her throat— “and you’re supposed to be _my_ friend.” another break, a hitch. “ _my friend._ and where have you b-been where have any of you— not with me!” a sob breaks through and lena is disgusted with herself, weak and sniveling and worse still she can’t stop; the dam is cracked now, the flood is moments away. “not with alex. not— you haven’t— you haven’t—”

“lena,” sam begs, desperation now.

lena shakes her head. she feels unwell.

she collapses a moment later, sobs already wracking her body. sam catches her when she’s almost on the floor. curls up beside her, the cold tile of the kitchen digging into their sides, holds her close, arms wrapped around her middle, face buried in the soft silk of lena’s hair.

.

.

the journaling was her therapist’s idea. she’s supposed to write down what she feels, record it for posterity.

“just a few things a day,” she said, with her kind smile and her eyes that see too much. “anytime you think of her. it’s good to get the emotions out somewhere. you don’t need to read it again, just so long as your feelings go somewhere.”

of course lena re-reads it. she has to. it’s like a compulsion.

every time she does she wants to throw up.

she tears the kara-centric pages out and throws them away. (not fully away, of course; like she was looking for an excuse to accidentally keep them. she doesn’t shred them, or burn them, doesn’t throw them in the dumpster or even in the regular garbage, where they might be soiled by food and drink and all manner of things. she crumples them just enough to convince herself they will be unreadable, and drops them in a recycling bin she doesn’t bother trying to empty for five days.) until sam discovers them. until she shamefully fishes her work out of the bin, smoothes the pages out with shaking hands, drinks, re-reads, cries.

> **Had an article published in Nature Nanotechnology this week. Thinking about Kara a lot this week. Whether or not she’d have loved Akilah as much as I do. ~~If she’d be proud of me.~~ If I’m doing enough to mourn her or remember her. If I should be trying harder or not trying as hard. If it’s disrespectful of me to do things I like or have sex or read or experiment or laugh at TV or smile when the weather is warm and the sun hits my face.**
> 
> **I don’t know if I want to talk about it or not. I don’t know if I want to reach out to anyone or not. I don’t know what I need or want I feel lost, untethered. All music makes me cry.**
> 
> **~~I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.~~ **
> 
> **Sam said I seemed calmer yesterday. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s mistaking emptiness for calmness.**
> 
> **National City is suffocating. It’s hot and crowded and too close to everyone and everything I have ever loved and I’m alone and cold here ~~and I can’t talk to anyone here.~~**
> 
> **Everyone expects me to be stronger than I am and I can’t let them down or tell them the truth but ~~this is all very hard and~~ I don’t know how I’m supposed to do it.**

she keeps the journal hidden, tucked underneath a rack of shoes in her closet. she thinks by keeping it there she’ll think about it less, reach for it less, need it less. she thinks there, no one will ever discover it. perhaps she’ll uncover it again years from now, when the rawness has faded to bitterness, when the sharp stabs in her stomach, under her ribs, turn into more of a dull pulse. when she can pick up the black moleskin and skim her fingers over her own words and feel nothing but a twinge of long-lingering sadness.

of course she returns every night. almost shamefully. sits on the floor of her walk-in with her back to the frame and her feet kicked out, book balancing on one knee, crossed over the other. it slips occasionally and the back of her hand smudges the wet pen. she switches pens, but it doesn’t help. tries pencil, but cringes at the impermanence of it, the changeability of it, the removability — and she can’t stomach impermanence, apparently, anymore, though her life is full to the brim of impermanence.

it sits in front of her now, open to an empty page. lena stares down at it, wondering how it got there.

a head pokes through her office door and asks, cautiously, “ms. luthor?” and lena blinks herself awake.

she lifts her head, eyes still bleary. “yes? what is it, akilah?”

akilah steps inside with more confidence than most of lena’s staff would, these days. they have a habit of walking on eggshells. but not akilah. not ever. today her braids are piled high on her head, and her dress is a deep purple, beautifully patterned. gold earrings, tasteful but inexpensive, look rich and precious next to her dark skin. lena’s breath lightens, just momentarily, because she likes akilah rather fiercely, and respects her twice as much. and there are not many people lena respects. “we finally finished our inventory of the lab after the break-in.”

lena sits straighter and waves the woman closer. she closes her notebook and pushes it away, as if even that little distance will let her forget what’s written inside. “please have a seat.”

akilah does so, perching carefully across from her. “nothing was stolen,” she explains, a file in her hands that she doesn’t yet relinquish, “but there was a file accessed at 9:14 a.m. about 12 minutes before you got into the office. it was the only file accessed that morning. from a server none of our techs signed onto. in the c wing.”

lena sucks in a breath. _the c wing. that isn’t good._ “how did they access the network?”

“we’re still working on that. we think a backdoor virus on a USB.”

“self-destructing code?”

“almost definitely.”

“yes,” lena says, frowning. it does make sense. lex is more than smart enough to do it. and it’s a clean break-in. no record of the malware, and the USB itself is easy enough to smuggle in and out, or destroy without a trace. and if security was already intercepted… “which file did they access?”

akilah slides the manila envelope across the desk. lena flicks it open and scans the contents. her brow furrows deeper. it’s silent for several long moments. lena swallows, and the sound is too loud for comfort. “who else has seen this?”

“no one, ms. luthor. i’m the one who made the discovery.”

“no one else has reviewed your records?”

“no ma’am. just you.”

“good. keep it that way.” she reads for a few more moments, numbers and letters blurring together under the skimming of her eyes. “how many copies of this file exist?”

“just two. the one in your hand and the digital file on the l-corp hard drive.”

“delete the digital file. scrub the hard drive. make sure no one can access this information from inside l-corp again. and no one lays eyes on this information except for you, and me. can you do that?”

akilah looks uncomfortable, now. she shifts in her seat. “yes,” she finally says after a long pause.   
“i can do that.”

but lena, sensing hesitance, asks, “but you don’t want to?”

“no, ma’am.”

“why not?”

“this research is preliminary but promising. the idea is… life-changing. i don’t particularly like destroying good science.”

“or doing something without an explanation?” lena guesses.

akliah nods, but sets her face. “i’ll scrub the hard drive, ms. luthor.”

lena eyes her for a moment, weighing something in her mind. she’s been burned before. and she’s smart enough to understand that no one is to be trusted; not anymore. but akilah looks back at her, and lena understands the game she’s being forced to play, even if she’s not sure of the players. and akilah questioned her. that’s not the behaviour of a spy; certainly not a very good one. “i’m a paranoid woman by nature, akilah,” lena finally says. “if i’ve learned anything it’s that you can never be too careful. l-corp is a large operation. i wasn’t involved in hiring all of my employees, and just because they passed a background check doesn’t mean they’re trustworthy. there are spies everywhere. i don’t trust anyone.”

akilah swallows. “but you’re trusting me to clear this project from the records?”

she doesn’t trust anyone. but she knows people, and she knows desperation, and she understands behaviour. she’s a scientist. she makes observations.

“yes,” she says simply. “i know the work you’ve done for me in the past. i know you’re capable of doing what i ask. and i know you haven’t shown this file to anyone else in the office.”

“how do you know that?”

“because i know that four months ago a representative of one of our competitors approached you and offered to pay for your mother’s chemotherapy treatments in exchange for just a few cell phone pictures of a few of our device blueprints.” akilah has gone still in her seat. “and i know that you refused them, and the money. i know you need this job, and i know that you know you’re in line to be the head of the r&d department by the end of the next fiscal quarter, assuming everything goes to plan. accomplish this for me and the position is yours starting on the first of the month. and you’ll never have to worry about another hospital bill again.”

“i… ms. luthor—”

“my brother believes people are disposable. he always had. that’s why his organization is sloppy and his people are careless. it’s why they left behind records that they’d infiltrated our computer system. lex is smart enough to cover his tracks which means he had some lackey do it for him while he was waiting to ambush me. i know my brother has limitless money, and i know you could have hidden this evidence from me easily, if he had asked you to. but i know that you have a moral code, in addition to needing money, and i’m offering you a way to have both.” lena stands from her desk and walks to her window. she looks out, eyes almost sightless. “my brother has no loyalty to anyone, and no one has any loyalty to him beyond the promise of a pay check. and that is why he made a mistake. that is why he’s going to lose.” she turns now, eyes flashing. “and i’m going to be the one to stop him.”

.

.

the phone rings for several long seconds. 5 blaring chimes, that lena is almost positive are going to go unanswered, when finally, a distracted _“hello?”_ makes her perk up.

“do you have any way of contacting your friends on earth-1?”

there’s a long pause on the other end of the line. she can picture alex pulling the phone away from her face, squinting down at the name on the screen, before coming back, bewildered. _“lena?”_

but she doesn’t have time to explain. “alex, this is very important. do you have any way of contacting your friends on earth-1?”

_“i… how do you know about that? earth-1—”_

“i know a lot of things, alex. just answer the question.”

_“i—yeah, i can… yes. i can contact sara lance. she’s—”_

“the time-traveller?”

 _“okay, seriously,_ **_how_** _do you—?”_

“what about the other one? isn’t there a speedster, too?”

_“we need to talk about all the national security protocols you’ve apparently breached this week, but— sara’s is the only number i have. but she works with barry, she’ll be able to reach him. do you want to tell me what this is all **about** , or—?”_

“call her. i need to speak with her immediately.”

_“lena, is everything okay?”_

“we can’t speak about this over the phone. it isn’t secure. do you remember where we met to plan kara’s surprise party last year?”

_“yes.”_

“meet me there in twenty-five minutes. i’ll explain everything.”

________________

alex drops her motorcycle helmet onto the table. lena jumps, looking up from her scribbling. alex opens her mouth, already furious and with words half-formed on her tongue, but lena beats her to it.

“give me your phone.”

“my—”

lena snaps her fingers. “your phone, agent danvers. give it to me.”

alex grumbles and fishes it out of her pocket. she hands it over, slapping it into lena’s hand. “what, are you going to take out the sim— LENA!”

lena’s dropped her brand new cell phone _directly_ into a large glass of water. alex gapes at her, outraged and disbelieving.

“what the _fuck,_ lena?”

“i’ll buy you a new one.”

“you’ll do a lot more than—”

“ _the call of cthulu_.”

“…the call of _what_?”

“it’s the book lex was quoting from, that day he broke into my office.”

“are you going to tell me why you just murdered my cell? or how you managed to breach at least _seven_ layers of internal deo security today? or maybe what the _hell_ you’re talking about?”

“don’t be dramatic, it was only four layers.”

“ _lena._ ”

lena ignores her. “i destroyed my phone too, by the way. we can’t be sure what sort of malware might be installed. anyone could be listening. better safe than sorry.”

“you couldn’t have _warned me,_ though?”

“we don’t exactly have a lot of time. listen, i thought lex was just spouting his mad ravings like normal, but… i think even _he_ couldn’t help gloating about his plans.” lean drops a manila envelope onto the table in front of her. alex stares at it warily. “when lex broke into my office, i assumed it was just to taunt me. to gloat about how he’s hurt me. but he accessed a file while he was there; it was the only thing in my entire infrastructure that was disturbed that morning.” she slides the folder across to alex.

alex sits down heavily. she eyes the folder for a moment, like she’s weighing her choices — anger or curiosity — and she lands on the latter. she rips it open, riffling through the few pages there. she frowns and looks up. “but this is—”

“a dimension portal. like the one your friends on earth-1 use. exceedingly dangerous, might i point out, especially if it fell into the wrong hands. technology this powerful could tear the very fabric of the universe apart. it’s extraordinarily irresponsible of them to continue to travel to alternate universes.”

“they don’t just— it isn’t for _fun._ only for emergencies.”

“you and kara went to earth-1 for a friend’s wedding.”

alex flushes. “that wasn’t… that was _one_ time. and anyway if it’s so dangerous, why do _you_ have one?”

“i _don’t_ have one. i’m trying to _build_ one. or at least… i was, until—” she shakes her head. “when i found out about the other universes, the other earths, the things they’ve figured out how to do there… time-travel and dimension-hopping… things i only ever _dreamed_ of as a child, i couldn’t help my curiosity. the best writers in the world could only _imagine_ the possibilities. but the technology _exists_ already, and it exists somewhere _we can reach_. or somewhere that can reach us. i couldn’t stop myself from wondering. what worlds are there to explore, how many realities with how many brilliant scientists making unprecedented discoveries…?” lena shakes her head again, more vigorously. “you can’t fault me my curiosities. i suppose i let it all go to my head a bit. but i _knew_ the risks. i understood what could happen if i succeeded. that’s why i cancelled the project. the risks far exceeded any potential reward. that file is the only thing that remains of the aborted prototype.”

“and…” alex flips through a few more pages— “you think this is what lex was after?”

“at 9:15 in the morning, before i entered the office, one of _my_ private hard drives was accessed, and not by any of my employees; not that we can tell, anyway. only 1 file was opened. we can’t find any evidence it was printed, or mailed out, or downloaded, but we have to imagine he was able to take it with him _somehow._ now, i couldn’t tell you what my brother wants with this technology. i only know it can’t be good. there are a million possible universes, dozens of which must have super-powered beings. there is power, untapped, that he can absorb; riches to plunder; people to slaughter; worlds to dominate; supers to kill. and if he gains the ability to travel at-will between them… or, god forbid, he gets his hands on the technology your friend sara uses to _time-travel_ …”

alex has gone pale. “he’d control everything. the entire universe—”

“ _all_ of the universes. all of _time._ and with no superheroes to stop him…”

“jesus.”

“all he needs is one working portal to open for one moment. one single moment, just long enough for him to pass through. if he escapes into another universe, we’ll never be able to stop him. we’ll never be able to _find_ him.”

“so what do we do? how do we stop him from building one of these portals?”

“well, the schematics he stole from me were incomplete.”

“lucky us.”

“but that project wasn’t started by me. i found the research when i took over at l-corp.” alex swallows. “lex created the first designs. there’s no telling how far along on the project he might be.”

“unfinished, if he needs to break into your office to compare notes.”

lena nods. “that’s true. i never even got around to finishing preliminary testing phases. so he can’t have gotten very far along in construction. or else something in the design stage is holding him back…” she shakes her head, moving on. “besides, he’d need a power source, something strong enough to tear a hole in the _fabric of reality_. that’s something that can’t be manufactured on earth. not _this_ earth, anyway.”

“1.21 gigawatts.”

“what?”

“it’s from— nothing, not important. so he’s after something alien, then?”

“i don’t know for sure.” lena taps her pen quickly. she’s drawn something on a napkin, but alex can’t decipher it upside down. “probably. but even amongst alien artefacts, we haven’t discovered anything powerful enough to work for a device like this. that power is only theoretical; it’s a mathematic equation, not anything tangible. at least not that i can find. outside of a dying sun, that is.”

“so what do you need from me? how can we stop him? i can have the deo—”

“no,” lena cuts her off quickly. “no. no one at the deo can be trusted. _no one else_ can be trusted. we don’t know where lex has his spies; any person we work with could be on his payroll. he was able to sneak into my office and dispose of my security _without a trace._ he had bugs planted inside _both_ of our apartments. no. this stays between the two of us.”

“you can’t be serious.” but lena is deathly serious, and her face shows as much. alex balks. “lena. come on. what can the two of _us_ do against lex and his band of followers? there are only _two_ of us. at least let me call winn and brainy and—”

“no.” lena puts her hand on top of alex’s and grips tightly. “ _no one_ else can know about this. not where we’re going.”

“and where exactly _are_ we going?”

lena’s expression is grim. “you aren’t going to like it.”

“lena—”

“can you fly a plane?”

alex’s eyes are narrow slits. “i don’t like where this is going.”

“i told you you wouldn’t.”

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and poetry throughout from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken.
> 
> Feel free to come talk to me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/). My headspace is currently weird but you know, if folks want to talk.


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